


You Say You Need No One, Yet Here We Are

by ArcticKiss



Series: Bewitchered [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, But also, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt doesn't know what he needs, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Roach Ships It, Shameless Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, What episode 6?, Yennefer is jealous, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It, after episode 5, and I hurt them a lot, just so you know, seriously, they're soft and stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcticKiss/pseuds/ArcticKiss
Summary: “Oh shit,” Jaskier muttered. He crawled as far back into his little shelter as he could fit. He hadn’t planned for this to happen. He hadn’t thought this through at all. He didn’t know what to do next.In the blink of an eye, the monster had rounded his shield of roots and was staring directly at him.Now he’d never know what that look in Geralt’s eyes meant, that quick glance he had chosen to direct at Jaskier when it appeared he’d had less than a second left to live himself.Jaskier’s hands were clenched at his sides. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around his head and make himself as small as possible. But if he was going to die anyway, he wasn’t going to spend his last moments curled up in a frightened little ball.Or, Geralt is doing a fine job of pretending being followed around by a pining bard does nothing but annoy him, until Jaskier gets hurt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Bewitchered [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1841308
Comments: 265
Kudos: 3970





	1. Letting me borrow your clothes

“So, what are we hunting?” Jaskier asked cheerfully as they left the inn. He changed his pace to a half jog to keep up with Geralt’s long strides.

A persistent light drizzle had turned the village main street muddy. Geralt untied Roach and started walking east, the direction from which the latest attack had been reported. He would mount her when they got past the worst of the puddles.

His half-snort came out sounding like a grunt. “We?”

“You, I meant you, of course,” Jaskier said, spreading his arms as if he was to jump straight into a ballad in the middle of this deserted muddy road. “Oh, great Geralt of Rivia, mighty witcher and-”

“Please shut up.”

Jaskier seemed to contemplate that for half a second, then shook his head. “Nah.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. “Didn’t think you would.”

Roach snorted. Geralt patted her shoulder affectionately.

Jaskier, seemingly impervious to insult by horse, jogged ahead and turned around so he could beam a bright excited smile at Geralt and continue disturbing both horse and witcher’s peace and quiet, walking backwards.

“You know me so well. So, what is it? Like, I know the villagers said it’s the most terrifying thing they’ve ever seen and it destroys their crops, men have disappeared in the forest and it probably wants to murder their babies, but, well, that’s what they all say, isn’t it? So that’s not much to go on, but your super witcher senses must have picked up some-”

Geralt finally gave Jaskier an answer, hoping against hope that it would shut him up for a while. “Convenient as it would be, I can’t sense and identify monsters from great distances. I don’t know what it is and neither do these people. This village has been plagued by monsters before. They would have given me a name if they’d recognised it.”

“Ooh, so it might be something new, exciting,” Jaskier said without missing a beat. “That would make such a great song.” He fondly stroked his lute.

Thus fondling his instrument and humming what were probably the beginnings of this ‘great song’, Jaskier obviously didn’t notice the large puddle he was backing into.

Geralt did, hell, even Roach probably knew what was about to happen.

Geralt stopped the warning that was at the tip of his tongue by clenching his jaw and made a valiant effort to innocently look the other way. He couldn’t quite stop the way his traitorous arm reflexively shot forward to grab Jaskier the moment he slipped.

He missed, but it was close.

Jaskier yelped as he stumbled and inevitably fell backwards into the muddy water. The puddle was even deeper than Geralt had anticipated.

Roach made a sound that was suspiciously close to a snort of laughter and Geralt smirked.

It was quite a sight. The speed with witch Jaskier pulled the lute free from his shoulder and held it up to save it was admirable. In the end it was the only thing he managed to keep dry.

The sound of Jaskier’s wet coughing and gasps were what pulled the grin from Geralt’s face. For some reason this didn’t feel as satisfying as punching him in the gut had on the day they met. He took pity, picked up the lute and held out his other hand for Jaskier to grab onto.

“Is my baby okay?” was the first thing Jaskier said when he’d regained his breath and footing. The question was followed by a colourful string of curses before Geralt had a chance answer. “My clothes,” Jaskier whined, looking down at the ruined silk, “my baby,” he reached for his lute but changed his mind when he realised his hands were wet. He stepped up to Roach, presumably in some outrageously bold attempt to dry them on her like she was a piece of cloth.

Roach, like any self respecting horse would have, bit at him.

Jaskier jumped back, only just managed to avoid her teeth, and cursed some more. Something humans might call guilt that had begun to stir in Geralt’s chest melted away at the insult to his horse. He patted Roach’s neck and slung the lute over his own shoulder. 

“I’ll carry this for you until you deem yourself dry enough to touch your ‘baby’. Try to keep your hands off mine in the mean time. I can’t promise she’ll spit your fingers back out once she does get a hold of them.”

He mounted Roach and spurred her on. It was late afternoon already and he hated camping too close to human settlements.

Jaskier followed, providing a constant background noise of sighs, whining and complaints. He loudly announced the moment water was starting to trickle down the, until now dry, inside of his boots.

The drizzle had stopped, and it wasn’t a cold afternoon for early summer, but the wind had a chill to it. Geralt never payed much attention to Jaskier when he was babbling like this, but he couldn’t escape noticing that the overall sound wasn’t cheerful or bored but downright miserable.

If he were Jaskier, with Jaskier’s human constitution and desire for comfort, he’d want to stop moving and make a fire and find water to rinse and dry his clothes. 

Maybe they would part ways soon.

Jaskier was cold. He was wet and covered in dirt and cold and offended that he’d been made fun of by a horse. Had he mentioned cold?

He was also angry, but more at himself than at Geralt and Roach. 

He suspected Geralt might have been able to warn him in time, but he’d also, in a flash, seen Geralt reach for him as he fell. He couldn’t completely blame him for this after that.

Roach was simply too scary to be angry at. She could probably smell it on him and Jaskier didn’t think her above ‘accidentally’ stomping on him in his sleep.

No, he was angry about making such a fool of himself in front of Geralt.

To say Geralt didn’t enjoy his company much was an understatement. Still, Geralt hadn’t outright told him to leave him alone in a while - telling him to shut up didn’t count as telling him to go away. That was a good sign.

But he was so cold.

Roach was walking very calmly. Geralt liked to travel that way so he didn’t wear her out, not in any way for Jaskier’s convenience. Jaskier still had to walk faster than he would if he were alone. His body did warm up a little by the exercise. 

Combined with the bleak sun that appeared from behind the clouds now and then since the rain had stopped it was just enough to dry his clothes, but the process used up all his remaining warmth.

After about an hour he gave up walking beside Roach and fell behind to follow in her trail - at a safe distance. The only thing that kept him going was the faint hope that Geralt didn’t actually want him to leave. That, and the view of Geralt’s broad shoulders, muscular back and every single perfect snugly clothed inch of his ass and legs.

It was one of those legs he almost bumped into when Geralt suddenly steered Roach sideways so he could look down at Jaskier with his piercing yellow eyes.

“You’re still following me?”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows and pointed at Geralt’s shoulder. “Eh, you still have my lute.”

“Oh,” Geralt said, like he’d seriously forgotten. So much for it being a hint that he didn’t want him to leave.

Geralt handed him his instrument back.

Jaskier took his lute and stroked it affectionately. “You should feel special. I don’t let just anyone carry this, you know. Never anyone but myself actually, come to think of it.”

“Thank you for the honour,” Geralt said gruffly. 

Jaskier glared at him.

Geralt met his gaze, unimpressed. He silently stared down at him a moment longer, then turned Roach back onto the road and moved on.

It was getting dark fast, too late to turn back and make it anywhere safe. Jaskier just kept following.

Didn’t mean he was going to keep quiet about being cold and annoyed though.

By the time Jaskier finally stopped complaining, they had moved off the road and into the forest, Geralt had found a clearing where they could make camp, unsaddled Roach and built a fire.

Jaskier hung his spare clothes and blanket to dry, huddled close to the flames and, at last, shut up.

Geralt only enjoyed the quiet for a short moment. These days silence quickly became stifling in a way it never had before Jaskier started following him around.

“Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked.

“Nothing.”

Jaskier didn’t press on, which was unlike him.

Geralt busied himself unpacking the food that the villagers had given him along with half the coin promised for this kill, and tried to forget about Jaskier’s existence. 

This bread and cheese and smoked meat was intended just for him. He had accepted the contract, Jaskier just tagged along unasked. There was no reason Geralt had to share any of this with him.

But he knew Jaskier didn’t have anything to eat, and everything he owned had become soaked when his pack landed in the puddle with him.

What was this annoying new mix of feelings Geralt was starting to experience around Jaskier ever since the Djinn attack. Guilt? Obligation? Exasperation? …maybe, something not unlike but surely not actual fondness?

Geralt looked up, unable to keep looking away any longer, and noticed how Jaskier was still shivering, even with his hands practically blistering with how close he stuck them to the flames.

What was it to him if Jaskier starved, drowned in muddy puddles or roasted himself sitting too close to a fire?

Why was it that when Jaskier stopped complaining, it meant something was really wrong with him. More importantly, why did Geralt know this?

“You’re cold,” Geralt observed.

“No shit,” Jaskier spat. Then he shook his head. “M-mfine. Thanks for the fire.”

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt said. He walked over and handed Jaskier some food.

“T-thanks,” Jaskier said, ignoring the insult. “That almost makes up for not warning me about that puddle.”

It really doesn’t, Geralt thought. That stabbing feeling in his chest had to be guilt, which was ridiculous. This had to end before it got even worse.

He pulled his rolled up cloak from his pack and dumped it on Jaskier, who pulled it around himself like he was planning on hibernating in it.

“Thank you,” he mumbled again, and something that was muffled by the cloak but sounded suspiciously much like “smells like you.” Geralt ignored it, not knowing if he’d meant it in an offensive way, something about onions, or something much worse.

“You should go back,” he said.

Jaskier looked at him, wide eyes peeking out over the fur. “I’m sorry I insulted your horse. I was annoyed, and wet. She defended herself pretty well by the way. Are you really going to send me out into the cold night over it right now? You could have said so earlier. I could have made it back to the inn before dark.”

Geralt sighed. “Not right now. And it’s not about Roach. Tomorrow, you should start traveling a different road from mine.”

“Why?”

“Why are you really following me?”

Jaskier was still staring at him. Geralt stared back, challenging.

There was something in Jaskier’s eyes, something bright and determined. Geralt had seen it in a woman’s eyes a couple of times, but usually it was mixed with some level of fear. 

There was such a complete lack of fear in Jaskier’s eyes when he looked at him, it still took Geralt by surprise.

He was probably seeing this all wrong.

“Because I want to,” Jaskier said. “You inspire me. My songs can make you famous, feared, loved, whatever you want.”

“People already fear me and no song can make them love me. Staying close to me is dangerous.”

Jaskier snorted. “It’s dangerous everywhere for someone with my looks and talent.”

“Hmm, if it’s all the same to you, you should go make use of your looks and talent elsewhere.”

Jaskier was quiet for a while then, staring into the flames.

“I owe you,” he said, “for saving me, from the elves, and with the Djinn…”

“No you don’t,” Geralt said quickly. He didn’t say: that was mostly my fault anyway. “You owe me nothing.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, “then you owe me a chance make it up to you.”

“Hmm, that’s not how it works.”

“Sounds perfectly logical to me.”

Geralt snarled.

Jaskier didn’t flinch, just kept looking at him with those big eyes of his, eyes that reminded Geralt of children young enough they didn’t work the fields but played with their friends on the village green. Eyes like those of young dogs and cats venturing outside with them for the first time in spring, a little unsteady on their little paws still, tripping over small tussocks and flowers.

“Fuck,” Geralt swore. 

“What?”

“Fine. Stay. Whatever.”

Jaskier beamed a bright smile at him, unwrapped the cloak from his body and held it out to him. He started shivering again right away.

“I’m not cold,” Geralt said. “Keep it for the night.”

Jaskier wrapped himself up again and lay down on his side by fire. Only his hair and part of his face were visible. If he could, Geralt knew he would be purring like a kitten right now. “You’re a swell guy, Geralt,” he said softly, sleepily “impressive shoulder width, great cloak, cozy…” his eyes fluttered shut.

Jaskier was so full of trust. Not for anyone else, mind you, he was always trowing nervous glances over his shoulder no matter what town they visited. But he seemed to trust Geralt completely.

Geralt added some wood to the fire and chewed on a bit of smoked meat.

His superior hearing picked up the sound of Roach’s tail swishing from where she was standing at the edge of the clearing. Small nocturnal animals were waking up and flying, stepping and crawling in the forest around them. Jaskier mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep as he buried even deeper into the cloak. Otherwise the night was quiet. 

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt muttered at the fire.

The following day they had only just broken up camp - Jaskier wasn’t convinced he was even fully awake yet - when they found the monster. Or rather, it found them.

They had woken up to a forest filled with fog. Visibility was so poor Jaskier could barely make out the trees at the edge of the clearing, let alone anything beyond them. Geralt had been on edge immediately and shook him awake, barking something about unnatural weather and needing to move.

The thick grey veil that hung all the way from the tree tops above them down to the earth and damn near blinded them was also very cold. Jaskier grudgingly handed Geralt back his cloak and groggily stumbled after him and Roach into the mist.

Jaskier didn’t see or hear it coming, but he knew shit was about to go down when Geralt suddenly reached into his pack, downed a potion, drew his sword and moved ahead.

“Um, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, unsure whether to stop or follow. Roach had stopped when Geralt let go of her reins.

“Stay back,” Geralt commanded, hushed but urgent.

Jaskier froze, one hand on the shoulder strap of his lute. It was true that music was his only weapon, and the lute is mightier than the sword, some say, but he doubted it would do him much good right now.

Geralt stalked through the underbrush in a half crouch like an expert hunter. He was listening to, looking for and probably smelling something Jaskier was completely missing.

He was grateful for the fact that Geralt at least stayed within his - very limited - sight, moving a little ways away and then circling back.

“Is it…near?” Jaskier asked when Geralt was close to them again.

Geralt’s: “Fuck,” wasn’t quite an answer, but Jaskier took it to mean something along the lines of ‘yes, it’s right behind you’. 

His heart started beating faster in his chest.

“It’s trying to lure me away from you, it’s intelligent,” Geralt said.

“Um, okay, that sounds like, really bad news.”

Geralt glared at him. “You’re the one who insisted on being here.”

“Ouch. Okay, fair, maybe I deserve that. But in all honesty, if we’re getting technical about my wishes, right here right now in this situation isn’t what I specifically-”

Geralt picked up Roach’s reins and deposited them in Jaskier’s hand. “Look after her for me, and, by the Gods, shut up!” He hissed. The piercing glare of his pitch black eyes was a formidable thing to be subjected to. Jaskier gulped and nodded.

Geralt moved away then, further than before, disappearing into the fog. Jaskier really, really wanted to ask him why doing what the monster wanted was the best course of action, but Geralt had sounded very serious when he asked him to shut up. 

The forest was eerily quiet. Jaskier could hear his own heart beat. Could the monster hear that too? Yes, it was probably best to keep his mouth shut. He could do that.

Nope, he couldn’t. Not when Roach suddenly started pulling him backwards.

Jaskier’s only options were follow her or let go, and Geralt had also told him to look after her.

“Hey,” Jaskier whispered. “Stop. Geralt didn’t tell us to move.”

Roach didn’t listen to him, she’d turned around now, pulling Jaskier with her.

“No, no, no, where are you going?” Jaskier whispered urgently. He pulled on the reins with all his weight. They were attached to her halter, not her bit, and Roach was stronger. She ignored his efforts completely. Jaskier stumbled after her because he would have fallen over otherwise.

“You’re a smart horse, right? You usually stay right where you should be to not get hurt when Geralt fights, right? Is that what this is? Are we not safe here?” Jaskier’s heart was beating in his throat now. He kept glancing around, but saw or heard nothing out of place, other than the deafening silence that hung over the forest.

Suddenly, that silence was broken by a dull thud, followed by a loud inhuman screech and then, finally, the familiar sound of Geralt’s voice, cursing and grunting.

The source of the sounds was behind them, way too close for comfort, but far enough to be hidden from view by the fog and trees. It was the direction Roach was still moving away from.

“JASKIER, RUN!”

Jaskier froze in place. Geralt sounded a little further away now. His voice was slightly muffled by the fog, but it was clear he had shouted with all his might and there was distinct distress in his voice, like the danger was close. Geralt wanted him to run, to leave him. Every instinct in Jaskier’s body screamed that that was the best idea he’d ever had.

He gasped when something soft brushed the back of his neck and only started breathing again when he realised it was Roach’s nose. She blew out a warm moist breath of air against his skin.

Roach nudged him with her nose, pulling him closer to her side. She threw her head over her shoulder like she was pointing at her back.

“You want me to…?” Jaskier, lay a hand on her back, remembering how sternly Geralt had once told him not to touch her. “Get on?” This situation probably counted as an exception.

Roach nickered. Jaskier didn’t speak horse, but at least she didn’t sound angry.

This was probably the closed Jaskier had ever been to Roach without her trying to bite him, so the fact that she seemed to want to save him was a bit baffling.

He looked over his shoulder at where he suspected Geralt was fighting something truly frightening, something that might be winning and something that Jaskier couldn’t see, so he couldn’t even describe it in a song about Geralt’s heroic death.

He’d never even know, would he? If he left now and Geralt disappeared forever. He wouldn’t even know what had happened to him.

Jaskier clenched his jaw, took his lute from his shoulder and tied the strap to Roach’s saddle. He patted her neck. “Look after this for me, bite anyone who tries to steal it, good girl.” Then he ran in the direction of Geralt’s voice.

Roach neighed loudly, but didn’t follow him.


	2. Letting me save you from monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments! Will try to update again tomorrow.

Geralt heard Roach’s warning, far enough away that he couldn’t see even with his enhanced vision.

“Fuck.”

He hated that he didn’t know if she was crying out for herself, for Jaskier or for both of them.

Life had been much simpler before Jaskier. Roach was smart, careful and had good instincts. She stayed out of danger. Jaskier was naive, reckless and unpredictable.

On second thought, it was pretty obvious why Roach would call for him.

The monster was fast, and played with him. Geralt had managed to sneak up on it once, but its tough slimy scales had deflected the blow of his sword. Aard had only stunned it for a few seconds. It appeared enraged, but didn’t stay to fight him, instead it seemed to be heading towards Jaskier and Roach.

Geralt had shouted for Jaskier to run and tried to block the monster’s path, but it crossed its raised forelegs, sharp like razorblades, and tried to take off his head in a single slash as they extended. 

Geralt rolled and only just escaped the killing blow, but again, the beast didn’t stay to finish the job. It turned around and disappeared from his view, moving faster than Geralt had thought it capable of.

Geralt followed, running as fast as he could.

The place he had left his trusty horse and foolish bard was deserted. Their tracks told him they’d doubled back. 

Geralt was just starting to think that Jaskier had been smart for once and heeded his advise to run when he heard Roach’s cry.

He cursed, and then he heard Jaskier scream.

The dark fuzzy shape Jaskier saw advancing at him at high speed through the mist turned out to be a monster that looked like a giant insect, a stallion sized grasshopper crossed with a spider and…something with knives for forelegs.

Like a true hero from one of his songs, Jaskier screamed, tripped over a dead branch as he stepped back, fell on his ass and crawled backwards on his hands and feet until the back of his head hit a tree trunk.

The impact made him bite down on his tongue, which effectively put an end to the screaming, but did nothing for his panicking.

The monster stopped to look down at him, tilting its insect head with large facetted black eyes as if taking a moment to wonder about what an easy kill this would be, and then Geralt was in front of him, between him and the beast. Jaskier had never been happier to see the witcher’s back, and that was saying something.

Geralt’s sword was dripping with some pale green slimy liquid Jaskier had also seen glistening on the monster’s body, so he’d probably gotten one or two hits in. Yet the monster appeared uninjured as it moved, circling Geralt.

Maybe it had a higher pain tolerance than Jaskier, whose throbbing tongue brought tears to his eyes as the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

Geralt moved along, making sure to always stay between the beast and Jaskier. He attacked and managed to push it back a bit, but he couldn’t kill it in one well aimed blow like Jaskier had seen him do before. As the monster fought back, Jaskier realised Geralt seemed unable to even get one good hit in.

Jaskier scrambled onto his hands and knees and crawled away from the fight. 

A large tree had recently been blown over in a storm and got caught on one of its neighbours as it fell. Jaskier found some shelter between its dirt packed roots and the dent they had left in the forest floor beneath.

He felt around for a stick or anything to possibly use as a weapon to defend himself. His hand closed around a large pebble sticking out of the loose sand. It was pathetic, but better than nothing. 

He dared to raise his head and glance around the canopy of roots and sand above him.

Geralt wasn’t winning. The monster slashed at him and he successfully managed to dive and roll, but as he was down the monster stabbed at him again. It was faster than anything Jaskier had seen Geralt fight before. Geralt had to use all his strength to hold his sword steady as he fended off the blow, judging by his pained grunt.

Jaskier wondered why Geralt wasn’t using his magic to just blow the thing away. Maybe he’d already depleted his reserves.

Geralt tried to roll away again, but his grip on his sword must have weakened, because when the blade caught on a young tree it slipped out of his hand and fell to the ground, catapulted a little ways away by the bent sapling springing back.

Jaskier knew the monster was fast enough to kill Geralt before he got his weapon back.

It was going to kill Geralt right in front of his eyes, slash him open with its knife legs.

Geralt knew it too, but he didn’t look up to face his imminent death or try to do something about it. Instead, his black eyes scanned the forest and landed on Jaskier.

Jaskier had already thrown his pebble before he realised what he was doing.

Miraculously, or thanks to his practice playing ball games when he was young and still had friends, it was a hit, right on one of the insect-like feelers sticking out of the monster’s head. It probably didn’t do any damage, but it sure got the beast’s attention.

“Oh shit,” Jaskier muttered. He crawled as far back into his little shelter as he could fit. He hadn’t planned for this to happen. He hadn’t thought this through at all. He didn’t know what to do next.

In the blink of an eye, the monster had rounded his shield of roots and was staring directly at him.

Now he’d never know what that look in Geralt’s eyes meant, that quick glance he had chosen to direct at Jaskier when it appeared he’d had less than a second left to live himself.

Jaskier’s hands were clenched at his sides. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around his head and make himself as small as possible. But if he was going to die anyway, he wasn’t going to spend his last moments curled up in a frightened little ball.

The monster crossed its razor legs and stuck them down Jaskier’s shelter, which was nowhere near large enough for him to hide in from horse sized monsters.

Jaskier felt the cold green slime that covered the sharp edges against the skin of his neck and closed his eyes.

Geralt grabbed his sword and jumped to his feet. This monster was too fast, too smart, and its scales were created by too strong a magic to pierce.

There was no weak spot. The only possible victory was by brute force or powerful magic of his own, which he didn’t have. Geralt ran as fast as he could, but he knew he wouldn’t make it in time. The roots of the fallen tree hid Jaskier from his view, but he could see the monster perform the same move it had tried on him, slashing with its crossed forelegs. 

Geralt’s ears picked up Jaskier’s anguished gasp and the faint slicing of sharp blades through skin.

He froze. Only five steps away from the roots of the fallen tree. 

Five steps too slow.

The monster pulled its slimy legs back and raised its head to look at Geralt, waiting, as if it was challenging him.

The heady scent of warm human blood filled the air.

Geralt couldn’t move. His usually moderate heartbeat had picked up considerably when he saw Jaskier throwing that stone, but now it slowed to a near halt.

Jaskier hadn’t been a threat to this monster at all. All he’d done was try to distract it to save Geralt.

Jaskier had no business being here, but that didn’t mean he deserved to die.

Geralt’s vision turned red. He breathed in quickly through his nose. His hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.

The monster probably sensed his anger and decided to end this fight. It half jumped, half crawled over the fallen tree towards him, bladed forelegs ready to attack.

Geralt raised his sword and threw everything he had into his blow. He didn’t even consciously aim for anything. His body moved on its own as if powered by magic he didn’t know he possessed.

His sword sliced straight through bladed legs and scales and everything underneath. That single blow was enough to take the beast’s head clean off and send it flying. It’s decapitated body dropped to the forest floor and, after a final spasm, stilled. 

The dead leaves it had stirred up as it fell fluttered down and once again the forest was completely silent, save for Geralt’s laboured breathing.

Geralt didn’t enjoy his victory. There was no feeling of relief. He wasn’t glad to be out of danger and able to collect the rest of his coin. If he could go back in time and undo today’s events, even if it meant reviving this damn near unbeatable beast so he’d have to fight it again, he wouldn’t hesitate.

He let his sword fall out of his hand onto the moss and leaves and stared at the fallen tree hiding Jaskier’s decapitated body from his view. A heartfelt ‘fuck’ was on his lips, but it felt wrong to disturb the quiet with it. There were no right words for this.

He’d have to go over there, give him a proper burial. He couldn’t just leave him. 

Out of all the times the bard had annoyed him, this was the very worst. That it would also be the very last didn’t make up for that. Geralt had every right to be angry with Jaskier for making him deal with this mess. And yet, it wasn’t anger that he felt. 

Contrary to popular belief, witchers did feel. Geralt was programmed not to experience fear, but no one had thought to take away his sense of loss.

A small sound made him raise his head. 

Forest critters wouldn’t be returning to this part of the wood for some time yet, and if they did, they’d make sure not to make any noise. A monster always had a lingering effect on nature.

“Roach?” Geralt called out. If he knew his horse at all, she was still at a safe distance and wouldn’t come looking for him until he called her or she was absolutely sure all danger had passed.

He heard it again, a gasp, humanlike. A stifled moan, definitely human.

Geralt held his breath as he walked around the roots of the fallen tree and bent forward to look into the shadowy shelter beneath. He dropped to his knees.

Jaskier was covered in blood from his shoulders to his stomach. It had soaked into his shirt and doublet, which were ripped in two places. His left hand was on his chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding and his right arm was limp at his side. But he was breathing, and conscious, and his wide blue eyes were looking straight at Geralt.

Geralt had to half crawl underneath the cover of roots to reach him. His potion was wearing off and with all this blood and his body blocking the faint sunlight it was too dark in here to see anything clearly.

“I’m going to move you so I can look at your injuries,” he said.

Jaskier nodded, tightlipped and pale.

Geralt gently slid his hands under Jaskier’s arms and pulled him out into the daylight. Jaskier moaned and wheezed through his nose.

It hurt like a bitch, worse than that time he got his young innocent heart broken twice in the same night. Jaskier’s chest and right arm were burning. But he wasn’t dead, yet. And, to his infinite relief, Geralt wasn’t dead either. A crushing weight had been lifted off his chest the moment he saw it was Geralt who came looking for him and not the monster. 

At first glance Geralt had seemed to share his relief, but as he worked on removing Jaskier’s doublet without jostling him, he started looking angrier by the second.

Jaskier winced and moaned when Geralt tried to pull his injured arm from its sleeve. Geralt gave up, pulled a knife from his boot and simply cut through the fabric.

“You idiot. Didn’t I tell you to run?” he growled through his teeth.

Jaskier wanted to defend himself and point out that they were both alive because of him, thank you very much, and also that his quality clothing didn’t deserve this rough treatment. But his mouth had filled with blood, so he turned his head to spit it out.

He felt the soft brush of fingers on his chin and Geralt gently pulled his head back to face him. His anger had melted away, leaving a wide-eyed defeated look. “No…” Geralt sounded broken.

Jaskier didn’t understand, until he realised Geralt’s eyes were pointed at the corner of his mouth, where he felt some blood trickle down.

“S’fine, jus bit my tongue,” he managed.

It wasn’t fine, not really. His chest hurt, his arm hurt, even his tongue still hurt. But he could breathe. He could breathe and he could move and if he stopped feeling sorry for himself and tried to assess the damage, he’d guess nothing vital had been hit this time. He didn’t fear for his life as much as he had after the Djinn incident. 

Geralt took a steadying breath and then looked down again, resuming his task of removing Jaskier’s clothes.

“What happened?” he asked.

It was a broadly phrased question, but Jaskier knew it meant ‘why are you not dead?’

“It was going for my neck,” he said, shuddering at the memory. “And I’m not entirely sure what happened, because I may or may not have had my eyes closed at the time.” He stopped talking to clench his teeth and breathe through his nose as Geralt lifted his arm. “But I guess it pulled back before it sliced me and only grazed me, below my neck, and at an angle.”

“There’s a cut on your chest and your upper arm,” Geralt observed. “Your clothes and ribs helped deflect the one your chest, but the one in your arm is deeper. I’ll have to stitch it up. Do you hurt anywhere else?”

Jaskier shook his head. “Am I dying?”

“No,” Geralt said firmly. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m an artist, drama my thing.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.”

Jaskier was most definitely imagining it, but he thought he saw the corner of Geralt’s mouth twitch after that joke.

Geralt used the remains of Jaskier’s shirt to create a temporary bandage for his arm and called for Roach. She appeared a few moments later like she’d never been far away.

Jaskier was happy to see her. And not only because his lute was still safely attached to her saddle. “Glad you’re okay, Roach.”

Roach turned her head away and snorted.

Geralt smirked for real this time. “When did you two get friendly?” 

Roach turning away from him didn’t seem very friendly, so Jaskier gathered Geralt was teasing him. He understood she was upset. He would be too if someone rejected his help so pointedly.

Geralt walked to the saddlebags and when he came back he pressed something soft to Jaskier’s chest that felt like a rolled up piece of cloth. “Hold this.” He uncorked a small flask and put it to Jaskier’s lips. “Drink this.”

Jaskier obediently sipped the extremely bitter liquid without gagging until Geralt pulled the flask back, muttering the dose was probably more than enough for a human.

“Can you stand?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier tried moving his legs. They were fine. “Of course.”

It was probably whatever was in that flask combined with his body recovering from shock, but he actually felt pretty good, considering. Geralt and Roach were here, they were all alive, life was good.

As he pushing up on his good arm and got his legs under him, probably too fast, the sound of Geralt’s voice asking if he was alright faded into the distance and his vision went foggy. 

Strong arms caught him as he fell, lifted him up as if he weighed nothing and carried him away.

Through his eyelashes Jaskier saw sunlight filtering through the leaves above them. The actual fog seemed to be dissipating, he thought. Then everything went black.

Geralt carried Jaskier towards the sound of running water. The stream he found was very narrow, but the water seemed clean and he didn’t want to risk carrying the bard too far while he was still losing blood.

Jaskier didn’t regain consciousness when Geralt cleaned his wounds with freezing cold mountain water. He did moan pitifully when the needle first punctured his skin, and squirmed as the healing potion Geralt had soaked the thread in probably burned like Grandma’s Cordial in an open wound. But he didn’t open his eyes.

Geralt didn’t like mindlessly chattering Jaskier, but he found he disliked unconscious, unnaturally quiet Jaskier even more.

Geralt had applied new bandages, wrapped him up in his cloak and made a fire when he finally stirred.

Geralt looked up from the approximation of stew he was preparing by throwing all their leftover scraps of food together with some water and heating it up. It wouldn’t be the stuff they served at banquets, but it would be filling and warm. He threw Jaskier his spare shirt. “Put this on and sit up. You need to drink and eat.”

Jaskier managed the task, but only just. Geralt observed him as he struggled. He was pale, shivering and he doubled over from the pain when he tried lifting his right arm.

Still, when Geralt took pity and approached to help, he was stopped by fierce blue eyes. “I can do it,” Jaskier said. When the shirt was on he wrapped himself up in Geralt’s cloak again and sagged against the tree behind him.

Geralt handed him a bowl of food and Jaskier made a face.

“I haven’t had time to catch fresh meat,” Geralt said. “Eat or die of blood loss, your choice.” He shrugged. 

Jaskier picked up his spoon with his left hand, balancing the bowl on his lap, and ate.

It was only when the colour started to return to his face that Geralt felt his initial anger rekindle.

“You truly are a fool, Jaskier! What did you think you were doing?”

“Ow,” Jaskier groaned when he tried to sit up straight. “Um, proving myself a worthy travel companion?”

“What is getting yourself killed supposed to prove to me?”

“I’m not dead, you’re not dead and you killed your monster. I see nothing wrong here.”

Geralt didn’t respond to that, poking at the fire.

“You…did kill it, didn’t you?” Jaskier looked around as if he was expecting the monster to suddenly jump at him from behind a tree.

“Hmmm, what do you think? Stop panicking. Eat.”

Jaskier looked at Roach. “You didn’t bring the head? How will you collect your pay?”

Geralt looked at him now, exasperated. “I’m going back for it later. What do you think I’ve been doing while you were having a beauty sleep? Who do you think dressed your wounds? Roach?”

Jaskier looked down at his bowl. “Thank you.” And then: “What was that thing?”

Geralt grunted, starting to wonder if maybe he preferred unconscious Jaskier after all.

“Have you killed one before?”

Geralt sighed. “It was something I’ve never seen before. Most like a Krallach, but bigger.”

“Like a what?”

“A magical mutant.”

“A mutant?” 

“Hmm. Someone either set it free in this forest on purpose or they lost control over it and it escaped.”

Jaskier was quiet for a while, but conscious Jaskier never stayed quiet for long. “Maybe it was so angry because it didn’t like itself, like you.”

“It was just angry,” Geralt snarled. 

“Okay,” Jaskier said, raising his uninjured arm. “If you say so.”

“What would you have liked me to do, look deep into its pitch black monstrous eyes and have a long conversation about our feelings? It almost killed you!” 

Softer, Geralt added: “It could have.”

“I think your black monster eyes are sexy,” Jaskier said very quietly at the same time.

“What was that?” Geralt asked. 

He’d heard, of course he had. Jaskier knew that too. He just looked at Geralt with his innocent blue eyes. 

“Oh, for the love of..” Geralt stood up and started pacing. “Fuck.”

Jaskier winced when he tried to stand up as well.

“This needs to stop,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “You can’t stay with me. I can’t keep saving your ass and being forced to listen to this nonsense.”

“Hey, I saved your ass too this time,” Jaskier countered, rubbing his shoulder with his good hand. “And it’s not nonsense, it’s my opinion.”

Geralt didn’t respond to that. He sat down again and stared at the fire.

Jaskier finally managed to stand up and shuffle over to the fire. He flopped down right next to Geralt.

“Don’t move around too much,” Geralt said. “The potion is still dulling the pain and giving you strength, but it will wear off.”

“I won’t bother you,” Jaskier said.

Geralt snorted.

“I mean, I’ll definitely bother you, but I won’t hold you back, I swear. I was useful this time, wasn’t I?”

“You’ll get hurt again.”

“Maybe, maybe you’ll get hurt next and need me there to patch you up.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know, I just… I promise you, if in the future I get hurt bad enough that I’ll start holding you back, I’ll leave you be, and if I get killed-“

Geralt growled.

“Oh, shush, just hear me out. If I get killed you’ll obviously be rid of me. But if I happen to accidentally do something useful again, I might save your life some day. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

“I’ve a whole lot of peace and quiet to lose,” Geralt said.

“Well, you’ve been dealing with that pretty well so far,” Jaskier said encouragingly, giving Geralt’s knee an affectionate pat. “You’ll be fine.”

Geralt started down at his knee where he could feel Jaskier’s fleeting touch burn on his skin even through his clothes.

“What happened to you not wanting to die at all costs with the Djinn?”

“Planning to follow you and sing about you until my heroic death and actually, literally staring death in the face are two very different things.”

“They’re the same.”

“To you maybe. I myself am much braver when I’m not in any immediate danger.”

“You’re in immediate danger right now and you’re an idiot.”

“Please,” Jaskier said. His voice was smaller than before. His eyes were big and pleading.

Fuck, Geralt thought.


	3. Letting me ride your horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I hurt our precious Jaskier some more. I'm a terrible person.

“Say sorry to Roach for me.”

“Tell her yourself.”

Geralt had recovered the monster’s head and tied it to Roach’s saddle with a rope, so she had to drag it behind her. Jaskier was too weak to walk, but also too weak to not fall off a horse, so Geralt sat behind him. Combined, the load was a lot more than Roach usually had to bear.

Jaskier slumped forward, faceplanting into Roach’s mane. “Sorry, Roach,” he muttered, getting a mouthfull of thick horsehair. He slowly started to slide sideways. Roach nickered and slowed.

Geralt caught him and pulled him back against his chest. “She has good ears. She heard you the first time. And it isn’t far to the village. She’ll be fine.”

Jaskier hummed. It was hard to talk or even keep his eyes open. Geralt hadn’t been joking when he warned him about the potion wearing off.

“Why the sudden consideration for my horse?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier sighed. “She wanted to save my life and I ignored her and now she hates me,” he whined.

“If she tried to save your life she doesn’t hate you.”

Jaskier thought about that for a while. “Does the same go for you?” he asked.

Geralt didn’t immediately answer him and Jaskier didn’t want to push his luck. As the silence grew awkward he pretended to nod off, letting his body slump forward again. He didn’t need to pretend very hard, exhausted as he felt.

Geralt’s arm slid around his waist, carefully avoiding the cut in his chest, and pulled him back. This time the arm stayed.

Jaskier almost dropped his act out of shock when he felt Geralt’s other hand on his forehead. It was cool against his skin, which he was pretty sure was burning from a combination shame and nerves rather than fever.

Jaskier heard and felt Geralt to spur on Roach after that. Sorry again, Roach, he thought drowsily. Then he dozed off for real, his head lolling against Geralt’s shoulder.

Jaskier woke up in a bed. Everything hurt. His head, his arm, his chest. His tongue was swollen and tender and opening his eyes to see sunlight streaming in from a window shot daggers through his skull.

When he finally gathered the strength to roll over on his side, he noticed a tankard sitting on the floor beside his bed, filled with liquid.

Trying to reach for it with his right arm was a mistake, but after a few minutes trying to slow his breathing back to normal, he managed to sit up and bring it to his mouth with his left. He didn’t care what was in it, he was thirsty. It turned out to be fresh water, good.

Jaskier felt dizzy. He knew standing up was probably a bad idea, but he needed to leave this room and find Geralt.

As he moved, step by step and leaning heavily against the walls, he recognised this building as the inn they’d set off from yesterday. Or maybe it had been two days now, he didn’t know how long he’d been out.

A girl carrying a basket of laundry rounded a corner and almost bumped into him.

“Master bard,” she exclaimed, nearly dropping her basket. “I didn’t expect to see you up already. Is there anything you need?”

‘Up’ was a generous way to describe Jaskier’s current state.

“Where is the witcher I was travelling with?” he asked.

“Out in the stables, my lord.” She looked confused. “But wouldn’t you rather sit down and have something to eat? Marie has prepared a delicious-“

Jaskier waved his good arm to get her to shut up. His head was already spinning as it was. He needed to focus on his goal and nothing else.

The girl grudgingly pointed him in the direction of the stables and let him go, shooting him worried glances as he stumbled on.

Jaskier made it outside, rested a bit and managed to cross the courtyard to the entrance of the stables without falling over.

Relief washed over him when he spotted Geralt sitting on a wooden bench, oiling his sword. Roach was munching on some hay behind him. Jaskier knew the girl inside had said the witcher was still here, but he hadn’t been certain until now.

He slumped against a wooden beam and closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

“What are you doing out of bed?” a deep voice asked.

Geralt had noticed him, of course. It was impossible to sneak up on him.

Jaskier opened his eyes and tried to push away from the beam to stand up straight, but his body refused to cooperate. Oh well. He could just stay where he was and talk.

Geralt had put his sword aside and stood up, watching him.

“I wanted to say goodbye before it’s too late,” Jaskier said. A lump formed in his throat.

“What do you mean?” Geralt walked towards him, brows knitted.

Jaskier looked at him, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“Not immediately,” Geralt said. He sounded confused. “Not right now.” He was right in front of Jaskier now.

“Come on, Geralt, we both know you hate staying in places with too many humans. They were very nice to me inside. I take it collecting the rest of your coin went well?”

“Got a bonus because they felt sorry for you. I left it in your purse.” Geralt reached out for Jaskier, but then pulled his hands back, as if he wasn’t sure where the put them. “You shouldn’t be up yet.”

Jaskier let Geralt lead him back to his room. In the end he settled for one arm around his waist for support. Geralt unwrapped his bandages and inspected and cleaned his wounds.

“They don’t seem infected,” he muttered approvingly.

“Do you think it missed my neck on purpose?”

“There was nothing wrong with its aim,” Geralt said.

“Then why did it let me live? Why did it first come after me, then let me live? You said it was a mutant, but that means someone created it for a certain purpose, right? What kind of purpose is almost but not quite killing me?”

“I don’t know. You ask too many questions.” Geralt pushed him down gently but firmly on the bed and stood up. “Rest, I’m going to get you some food.”

“Please don’t leave me here.”

Geralt stopped in the doorway, but didn’t turn around.

“I don’t mean in this room…I mean…” Jaskier clenched his jaw and looked at Geralt, who still had his back turned to him. “If you leave me here I swear I’ll write the ugliest but catchiest song you can imagine about a stupid stinking witcher from Rivia who pretends to fight monsters but can barely handle a rabbit, and I’ll sing it everywhere.”

Geralt turned around. For a fleeting moment, Jaskier saw something that might pas for a smile on his face. “Rabbits are very fast,” Geralt said. “And they bite.”

“Hey, I mean it.” Jaskier wasn’t going to let Geralt distract him now, not even by smiling, even if that was the meanest, dirtiest, absolute best way to do it. Jaskier felt like his heart just did a somersault.

“I travel alone,” Geralt said. Jaskier quickly turned his head when he felt his eyes fill with tears and focused all his attention on the wall opposite from where Geralt was standing.

“But I’ll consider it,” Geralt said quietly as he walked out of the room.

Jaskier stayed at the inn and slowly recovered some of his strength. 

His chest didn’t bother him much, only when he stretched or made an unexpected movement, but his arm still hurt like hell.

A cut ran all the way from his shoulder to the inside of his elbow. His lower arm and hand weren’t injured, but often the skin there burned or his fingers tingled all the same.

For someone with such strong broad hands, Geralt was very handy with a needle. The thin threads pulling Jaskier’s torn skin back together formed a neat even pattern. Jaskier wondered who had taught him.

Probably a sweet beautiful woman with soft hands that had doted on him after he got injured saving her life. On the other hand, with Geralt’s luck, it might have been a big burly butcher with a secret affection for sewing pretty silk dresses.

Jaskier shivered at the idea for a while, until he gave it some serious thought and realised that strong burly men with a secret soft side were possibly, maybe, exactly his type.

When he’d successfully made himself blush like a teenager thinking about it, he shook his head, closed his eyes and focused his mind. Beautiful elegant rich women are your type, Jaskier, well-dressed men who adore you and praise your art. Cute girls who laugh at your stories and dance to your songs, them, but maybe even better their mothers, or fathers, high-class and fashionable people.

It had only been a few days, but Jaskier really missed performing for a crowd.

Someone had washed and dried the remains of his old shirt and cut it into a strip of fabric he could use as a sling. It helped a little with the pain, but it did nothing for the deep ache he felt inside at not being able to play his lute.

He’d picked it up many times, but even the simple movement of lifting his hand to rest on the strings was agony, let alone strumming them.

Geralt aimlessly roamed around the village. 

This was truly an insignificant collection of hovels. If nobody set free some spawn of dark magic, nothing ever happened here. The only reason it had a half decent inn was because a well-traveled road to Temeria crossed through here.

The innkeeper had offered them two rooms free of charge for as long as they liked, but Geralt preferred sleeping with Roach. He only entered the building to eat and check up on Jaskier, who didn’t want for anything since he had made himself very popular with the serving girls by vastly exaggerating the deed of heroism that almost got him killed.

Geralt was bored. He could leave any time he wanted, of course, but Jaskier wasn’t strong enough to travel yet.

He wasn’t exactly sure why that was an issue. He and Jaskier had parted ways before. It wasn’t like Geralt needed him, and the last thing he wanted was someone needing him. Jaskier knew that.

Jaskier got himself hurt by choosing to get involved all by himself, yet Geralt felt responsible.

He’d tried to find out more about the monster, but no one seemed to know anything. It didn’t help that people started shivering with fear the moment he approached them and looked like they wanted to run away the moment he mentioned the beast.

He returned to the inn’s stable after another fruitless round of inquiries and noticed someone had led Roach outside and tied her to the hitching bar.

Geralt lengthened his stride, ready to demand what the fuck a stranger wanted with his horse, when Jaskier appeared from behind her.

Jaskier hadn’t noticed him yet. He was holding a brush in his left hand and speaking softly the horse. Roach seemed completely content letting Jaskier brush her. 

After a while, during which Geralt quietly observed them, Jaskier gingerly lifted his right arm from its sling and raised it to brush his fingers through Roach’s mane.

Geralt couldn’t see Jaskier’s face, but he bet it was twisted in pain by now. He could see Roach sense it and keep completely still.

Geralt cleared his throat.

Jaskier turned around and beamed the brightest smile at him, evidence of any discomfort wiped from his face.

“Geralt! She hasn’t tried to bite me. I think you’re right, I think she doesn’t hate me.”

She adores you, you blind fool, Gods know why, Geralt thought, but he only hummed. Jaskier’s smile and seeing him up and about did something to the dark mood he’d been in all day, all week, something inexplicable that Geralt didn’t know how to handle.

“Who gave you permission to touch my horse?”

“Aw, don’t be like that. Why, are you jealous? Geralt, you should know I wouldn’t hesitate a single second to brush your hair for you if you ever let me come that close.”

“I’ll bite you,” Geralt warned.

Jaskier laughed, a sincerely joyful sound. “Aw, you don’t know what you’re missing. Tell him, Roach.”

“You seem better,” Geralt changed the subject.

“I feel great. All ready to go. Where are we headed next?”

Geralt shook his head. “You’re not-“

“What? Jaskier interrupted him. His smile disappeared and his eyes burned with determination. “Not ready? Not coming with you? You just see about that.”

Geralt had fought and defeated many monsters, but he knew was no match for a stubborn bard, not this one. When Jaskier set his mind to something it happened one way or another.

He managed to delay their departure to the next morning. He supposed he could have quietly snuck out of the village at night, but something told him that besides a seething bard on his tail he’d now have a disappointed horse as well. 

Apparently they would be traveling together for a while longer. At least until Jaskier was fully healed and it wouldn’t feel wrong to leave him anymore, was what Geralt told himself. 

“I’ve always liked Temeria,” Jaskier said when they crossed the border. “Good coin, beautiful women who like to pretend to be pious and faithful to their husbands, great place.”

Geralt looked up at him. He was letting Jaskier ride Roach until he was actually strong enough to walk long distances, and not just claimed to be. 

Geralt didn’t mind to walk himself, but something he hadn’t foreseen and didn’t like very much was the fact that now that Jaskier was officially allowed to come close to Roach, he never stopped spoiling her. Every night he brushed her, stroked her neck and stood on his toes to, it seemed, whisper secrets in her ears when he thought Geralt wasn’t looking. Geralt wasn’t curious about that, he really wasn’t. It was just annoying.

“Do you ever think about anything other than wrecking marriages?” he asked.

“I never set out to intentionally wreck a marriage.” Jaskier sounded offended. “I can’t help that my heart is weak and easily captured. Besides, I said the women were only pretending. They’re never actually faithful to anyone, definitely not to me.” His voice trailed off and he was quiet for a while. “Maybe I fall for the wrong type.” He perked up again. “Geralt, what’s your type?”

“Hmm, I don’t have a type.”

“Yes you do,” Jaskier teased. “I’ve seen you be picky in whorehouses. You’re not fooling anyone.”

“Having a type and being wary of the diseases some whores carry are two completely unrelated things.”

“Pff, sure, you’re probably immune to that stuff anyway,” Jaskier said. “Come on, tell me what you look for in a woman?”

“For her to be nice and quiet and leave me the fuck alone.”

Jaskier lifted his hands in defence. He hardly winced when he lifted the right one these days, Geralt noticed, either that or he got better at hiding his pain. “Fine, suit yourself.” Jaskier muttered something insulting about grumpy witchers that Geralt chose not to hear.

Geralt had caught a hare in one of his snares. He grabbed it and made his way back to their camp.

They were camping at the edge of a forest. The farmers who lived nearby claimed they’d seen a dark shape wander between the trees when they worked their fields and were afraid a monster would soon show itself and start killing them.

Geralt didn’t believe in monsters that hadn’t actually been spotted or done any damage yet. Humans were such easily frightened, panicky beings.

He’d only agreed to guarding the edge of the fields for a couple of days because Jaskier looked like he could use the rest.

Maybe this wasn’t the best place for it though. Jaskier didn’t quite share his view on imaginary monsters, and even though they’d been here for two days now, Geralt had yet to see him turn his back to the trees and stop darting worried glances in their direction.

Geralt upped his pace as he thought about Jaskier, telling himself it was because night was falling and cleaning and cooking a hare was easier with some daylight.

When he got close, he heard the familiar sound of Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier had been fondling and talking to the damned elven instrument every single day since they set off, but it felt like an eternity since Geralt had last heard him play it.

He wouldn’t say he’d missed it dearly, but the trembling, sorrowful notes the wind carried in his direction somehow made him stop and listen.

It wasn’t a song about him. Jaskier sang of longing, heartache and lust. Geralt slowly moved forward again, careful not to make any noise. He could see the bard’s back now. It seemed he’d finally gotten over his fear of the forest. 

Every now and then the music faltered and Jaskier’s voice trailed off. When he gasped and played a bad note, Geralt stepped into the light of their fire.

Jaskier’s head snapped up like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. There were tear streaks on his face. He lowered his head when he saw Geralt looking at him.

Geralt dropped his hare and crouched in front of him. He tilted Jaskier’s face up by his chin and took the lute from him with his other hand.

“Does it hurt that much?” 

Geralt couldn’t quite remember the way humans experienced pain. He was still capable of feeling pain, but it was different somehow.

Jaskier shook his head.

“Let me see,” Geralt said. He gently lay the lute to the side and waited for Jaskier to remove his jacket and shirt.

“There are sexier ways to ask me to undress for you,” Jaskier grumbled, but he obliged.

The cut on his chest was nearly completely healed. When Geralt unwrapped the bandages on his arm, he saw that one was still red, but not inflamed. In previous stubborn attempts to play his instrument, Jaskier had made himself bleed again, but now the edges of the wound stayed together without aid from Geralt’s stitches and new skin was forming.

“They’ll both scar.”

“Ooh, maybe I’ll look as fearsome as you one day. On the other hand, let’s hope not,” Jaskier joked.

“Rest your arm, bard,” Geralt said. “You’ll play again.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt shook Jaskier by his uninjured shoulder.

Jaskier remained motionless, curled up under his blanket, eyes closed and breathing even. Maybe Geralt was just imagining things, but his heartbeat sounded a little slow.

“Julian,” Geralt tried.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de-“ 

Jaskier moaned, opened his eyes and glared at him. “I’m flattered that you remember,” he said, “but please, don’t call me that again, it sounds too…formal when you say it.”

Geralt sat back, feeling strangely relieved. “Rough night?”

“Had a nightmare,” Jaskier said. “Lay awake for a long time afterwards.”

The being unable to sleep could be true, but Jaskier was lying about the nightmare. Jaskier’s nightmares always woke Geralt. Geralt decided to let it go. Jaskier turned grumpier with every day he wasn’t able to play and perform.

They had finally convinced the farmers there was no monster and moved on. Geralt knew there was a town within a days walk that had a decent inn. Jaskier would sleep in a real bed tonight.

They made it to the inn of Bellmare before the good food ran out for the evening. Geralt enjoyed the decent well prepared meal, but Jaskier seemed to have lost his appetite.

“You should probably go on without me,” he suddenly said.

Geralt lowered his spoon and looked at him. Maybe he’d let Jaskier drag himself back onto his feet sooner than he should have. But was it really his duty to protect him from his own foolish optimism?

“Did you change your mind? Is monster hunting too scary for you after all?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Yes, imaginary monsters is where I draw the line, I can’t deal with that shit.” He rubbed his eyes. “No, Geralt, I’m just…tired of being on the road all the time. This is a nice place, I think I’ll stay here for a while, write some songs, fall in love, get my heart broken, make lots of enemies and maybe catch up with you later when they’re all trying to kill me and I need someone to protect me.”

Geralt thought it was strange that Jaskier would ask to be left behind, when not long ago he had been begging Geralt not to leave him, but then, Jaskier was a very impulsive person.

None of those thoughts passed his lips. What he said was: “I’m not your personal bodyguard.” It wasn’t what he meant to say, but he didn’t know what exactly that was, so it was impossible to find words for it.

Jaskier waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll just let you know when I need you and we’ll see how you feel about it then.”

Geralt decided not to push. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He just needed to confirm Jaskier was really okay one last time and then he’d be off, free again at last.

When they finished their meal he followed Jaskier to his room.

“Let me see your arm.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes again but pulled his arm out of his sleeve and lifted his shirt. Geralt picked up a lit candle to inspect the wound.

“And your chest.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes but obligingly pulled his shirt further to the side. 

Geralt felt Jaskier’s forehead. It felt warm to him, but was probably a normal human temperature.

“Don’t play your lute all day when I’m not here to tell you you’re an idiot.”

Jaskier smiled at him then, but even in the flickering candlelight Geralt could see his eyes were a little watery.

He didn’t see the hug coming at all. Suddenly a half-dressed Jaskier was simply wrapped all around him.

“Thank you for taking care of me. Now take care of yourself, big guy,” he said.

Geralt awkwardly patted Jaskier’s head as he waited for him to let go.

He left before dawn, as the town still slept, including Jaskier, so he couldn’t change his mind, tell Geralt please and look at him with those eyes.

Roach let her head hang low when she realised Jaskier wasn’t following them and sulked all day long.


	4. Letting my absence make you grumpy

People pointed at him and then hid behind stalls when he got close. They pulled their children behind them or pointedly looked the other way and sped up. The word “witcher” was whispered so often that the air buzzed with it. Geralt ignored it all as he navigated Roach through the crowded Zaralman marketplace.

He was used to being feared. That the reactions were stronger than usual today was probably due to his foul mood showing on his face. He needed strong leather to repair his armour, but all these people seemed to be selling were thin scraps. Zaralma wasn’t a small town. So much for Temerian wealth.

It didn’t help his mood that his shoulder still ached whenever he turned his head. A kikimora had gotten a good hit in when he let his guard down. It had been a very clumsy fight for an experienced witcher.

At least Jaskier hadn’t been there to get hurt again. 

It had been three weeks now since Geralt left the bard in Bellmare. He wondered how he was doing sometimes. Not that he missed him. He just wondered. He suspected Roach did, miss Jaskier, but she didn’t talk, so he couldn’t be sure.

Something caught his eye at a cloth merchant’s stall. Geralt dismounted to take a closer look.

Next to the rolls of fabric lay a collection of warm winter cloaks, thick dyed wool with fur collars.

The owner of the stall approached him. He probably feared witchers as much as the next human, but people tended to find their courage when there was coin to be made.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” The man was nervously wringing his hands, but his voice was steady and confident. “My wife makes them. My son hunts the furs.”

Geralt ignored him. He let his fingers run over a blue, no, turquoise cloak with the softest grey rabbit fur collar. The colour was probably intended to be more fashionable than practical for camouflage, but during the day it might blend in with greens and during the night with the grey blue night sky. The wool felt thick and sturdy but supple. It would definitely keep Jaskier warm during the coming winter months.

It had often annoyed Geralt that Jaskier always dressed for fancy parties and banquets, for sleeping in inns and palace guest rooms, not for surviving on the road.

“Does the lady you’re thinking of have blue eyes, sir?” The merchant asked. “This colour would bring them out spectacularly. She will love it.”

Geralt shot the man a look that sent him cowering behind his rolls of silk and linen. He let go of the cloak, mounted Roach and moved on.

Geralt walked into the store and immediately noticed the fallen shelves and piles of broken glass. There was an odd smell in the air. The mixed odour of potions that had spilled from the broken bottles and seeped into the dirt floor was overwhelming, but there was something else underneath.

It wasn’t like the herbalist to treat his precious wares this carelessly, or let anyone else. A soft tinkling sound of broken glass being moved sounded from the back of the store, which had no windows and was only scarcely lit by a few oil lamps.

Geralt put a hand on his sword and cautiously moved on. “Hadrien?”

A small dark haired man in a pale green tunic embroidered with gold thread raised up from behind a lopsided cabinet. He was holding a small broom. “Geralt of Rivia,” he greeted.

“It smells like death in here,” Geralt said, letting his hand drop down at his side again at seeing Hadrien unharmed and calm. “What happened?”

“You still have a good nose, witcher,” Hadrien said. With a turn of his head he pointed to a far back corner of his store.

On a long bench lay what was unmistakably a dead body, covered by a sheet.

“Well, that can’t be good for business,” Geralt said.

Hadrien shook his head. “Her father brought her to me yesterday, already more dead than alive, poor thing.”

“I didn’t know you take on healing jobs these days.”

“I don’t. The healer had already told the man his daughter wouldn’t make it. He didn’t believe her, or didn’t want to give up hope, so he carried the girl to me and asked me for a miracle potion.”

“Which doesn’t exist,” Geralt said with a sympathetic shake of his head.

“I did give her something to ease her pain as she passed,” Hadrien continued. “Her father went crazy with grief, as you can see.” he gestured to the shattered remains of a good portion of his stock around them. “The sheriff took him away, but I expect him to be released soon. I’m watching over the body until her family has calmed down enough to arrange a funeral.”

Hadrien wandered over to the bench and lifted the sheet off the girl’s face. She looked peaceful.

“She was in agony when she arrived, but as you can see my potion succesfully took away her pain. Maybe it’s not good for business, as you say, but I believe it will leave my reputation intact. I’m sure the healer will testify that I didn’t kill her, if it may come to that.”

The girl couldn’t have been older than seventeen. There were no obvious injuries visible on her head and shoulders. The rest of her was still hidden by the sheet.

“What happened to her?” Geralt asked.

“Terrible bad luck, I fear,” Hadrien said. He lifted the sheet a little further. The skin of her arm that wasn’t hidden by the short sleeve of her frock was covered in blueish red streaks. The unmarred skin in between had turned a pale grey in death.

“She accidentally cut herself in her father’s smithy weeks ago. The cut was almost completely healed and she’d already gone back to work at a nearby butcher’s shop when it got infected. She felt bad about the work she’d already missed, so she didn’t tell anyone, and when her father found out, the fever had gotten so bad it took her in days.”

Geralt stared at the dead girl’s body until Hadrien covered it with the sheet again.

“I assume you’re here to restock your potions,” he said.

Geralt tore his eyes away from the sheet with difficulty. “Yes, I…yes. But there’s somewhere I need to go first. Do you have anything that counters an infection like that?”

“If you administer it in time, I have something, yes” Hadrien said. He tilted his head. “Are witchers sensitive to infections?”

“Not as much as humans,” Geralt said.

Roach sensed his urgency, like she always did. Geralt wanted to move as fast as he could without burning her up. She reacted so eagerly that instead of spurring her on he had to hold her back a couple of times.

He had no idea if Jaskier was still in Bellmare where he left him, but he hadn’t heard talk of a very annoying bard anywhere he’d been since, so it was where he’d have to start looking.

When he had stop to let Roach rest he and only slept a few hours himself.

The first unusual encounter happened when they were still about an hour’s ride away from the town. 

A tradesman with a mule pulling his heavily loaded cart were moving towards them. The road was narrow and slightly raised, following a natural ridge in he landscape. Geralt grudgingly steered Roach into the berm so the man could pass.

It was customary for travellers to thank one another for gestures like this, but Geralt was used to people lowering their eyes and spurring on their work animals when they were forced to pass by him at a short distance.

To his surprise, when this stranger seemed to recognise him, he took off his hat and waved it jovially. “Geralt of Rivia, I presume.” He bowed.

Geralt gave a curt nod.

“Well met,” the man said. “Well met indeed. Good luck on whatever your present business may be, witcher.”

It seemed excessive praise for stepping aside to let him pass, even more so because the man didn’t seem familiar and Geralt didn’t remember ever killing any monsters in this area.

He shook his head and spurred Roach on.

When he crossed the bridge over the broad river that flowed around the town and ran into more people, he couldn’t help but notice that there were a lot of friendly faces and many greeted them.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” he muttered under his breath. “Do you, Roach?”

Roach didn’t make a sound.

The highlight of the weirdness happened when he dismounted at the inn and a woman holding a young girl on her arm ran up to him.

“You’re here!” she said, sounding elated. “Will you please hold my daughter for good luck?”

The woman thrust the girl into his arms without waiting for an answer. The child couldn’t be more than four or five years old, tiny as she was, but her eyes held no fear for his rugged appearance as she wrapped her little arms around his neck and kissed his stubbly cheek. “Thank you for protecting humanity, sir Witcher,” she said.

“People, rejoice, Geralt of Rivia has blessed us with a visit!” her mother exclaimed proudly.

Geralt had no idea what to make of this welcome. Roach nickered, and he had a feeling she was laughing at him. 

He gently disentangled the girl’s arms from his neck and held set her down. She was so soft and fragile yet inexplicably full of trust for him. A small crowd was starting to gather around him now.

“Hmm…thank you,” Geralt said. “I’m…I don’t remember ever taking on a contract here?”

“We know what you’ve done elsewhere, witcher,” someone said. That was a sentence Geralt was familiar with, but usually uttered in a more disappointed tone of voice. “We know you’ll protect us when our town is ever in danger.”

Geralt felt confused and uncomfortable. He needed to know which direction Jaskier had left in now and get out of here as soon as possible.

“I’m looking for a bard,” he said. “He has blue eyes, brown hair, he’s-“

“Jaskier is inside,” a man said, pointing at the inn.

So Jaskier hadn’t left yet. Geralt first felt relief that his search was over sooner than he’d expected, then worry because what if Jaskier had lingered because he was unfit to travel, and then, finally, something clicked in his brain and a very familiar feeling spread though his body. A mix of anger, annoyance and frustration.

He left Roach with his little band of admirers and stomped through the front door of the inn. “Jaskier! He called out. “What the devil have you been singing about me?!”

It was mid afternoon and the common room was near empty. Two men who had started drinking early today sat at a table and blinked at him with confused bleary eyes. The innkeeper was probably at the back, overseeing preparations for dinner.

“Geralt? Is that you?” A soft voice sounded from his right.

Jaskier sat alone at a table close to the hearth, slumped over on his chair. He appeared drunk, but there was no drink in front of him.

Geralt stood in front of him and slammed his hands down on Jaskier’s table. “Why do these people welcome me like I’m some kind of hero? What have you been telling them?”

His pose would have been perceived as threatening by practically anyone with a survival instinct, but Jaskier smiled drowsily at him, like a sleepy puppy greeting its owner. “It’s good to see you, too, old friend. It’s true I’ve been singing some songs and telling some stories about you, but nothing but the truth, I swear.”

“Hmmm, have you been drinking?”

Jaskier looked offended. “Nooo.” He stood up and stepped around the table, very unsteady on his feet. Geralt moved forward with outstretched arms, but Jaskier waved him away. “Can stand just fine, see?” His eyes were slightly unfocused and there was something off, something different about his smell. Strangely enough, it wasn’t alcohol. 

“Tell me, what brings you here?” Jaskier asked.

What, indeed, was he doing here? Geralt couldn’t tell him ‘checking you’re not dying of an infection’, since that was hardly a reason to push Roach to make it here in two days from halfway across the kingdom. 

He still needed to know though. Seeing Jaskier appear weaker than when he’d left him did not reassure him at all.

Jaskier tried to take another step and stumbled. Geralt reflectively reached out to catch him again.

“You’re unwell. Where is your room?”

Jaskier pointed the way and Geralt led him there. As Jaskier sat down on the bed, Geralt pulled his shirt over his head.

“Woah, calm down” Jaskier slurred, “You’re very pretty,” He reached out to touch Geralt’s hair. “But I’m not in the mood for-“

“Shut up,” Geralt said and he batted Jaskier’s hand away. He inspected the scars on both Jaskier’s chest and arm. They appeared well healed. There was no redness or swelling.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier told him. He seemed to contemplate that obvious lie for a while. “Am not drunk.”

“What is it then?” Geralt asked. “Do you know?”

Jaskier nodded, but didn’t answer immediately, doing some more of that contemplating. “I think…someone put something in my porridge this morning.”

“Someone drugged you?”

Jaskier shrugged. “Ah well, it happens. One of the perks of being famous, having to deal with jealousy and all that.”

“What happened to leaving town and coming to find me as soon as you’d made enemies?”

“Eeh, I haven’t made any enemies per se.” Jaskier waved his hand dismissively. “The married men and women in this town aren’t all that appetising, you know.”

“But someone drugged you!?” Geralt couldn’t for the life of him understand why Jaskier was being so calm about this. This resignation wasn’t like him at all. Staying this long in one place wasn’t like him either.

“Told you,” Jaskier said. “It’s just a little jealousy. It’ll pass. No reason to quit what I’ve built up here. Did you know I get to sleep and eat here for free and all I have to do is entertain the guest a little?”

“By making up stories about me?”

“I don’t lie, I’m merely spreading the word on what a great man you are. A little gratitude would be in order, I think.” Jaskier closed his eyes and moaned. “Fuck, I fucking hate the headaches.” He lay back on the bed. “Just need to…” his voice lowered to a mumble “…sleep it off.”

Geralt stood up and looked down at him, exasperated. He waited until Jaskier was fully asleep before he checked his temperature and covered him with the blanket.

A forceful interrogation of the two men sitting in the common room didn’t yield any results. They were drunken idiots, not even capable of poisoning a rat. 

The innkeeper himself appeared worried for his business when Geralt asked him about Jaskier’s condition. “Do you think he’ll be able to sing tonight?”

“No,” Geralt bit out. He immediately disliked the man, but it seemed unlikely he was behind this.

No one, from the serving women to the stable boy seemed to have a motive to spill a potion in Jaskier’s porridge. They hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious either, but everyone admitted the entire town could have walked in and out of the kitchen this morning without anyone batting an eye, as the cook had already slept with half the men and some of the women and often invited her lovers in for treats.

The cook herself was a big, strong woman who didn’t fear Geralt in the slightest and took great offence in his accusations. She seemed very fond of Jaskier. She knew exactly how he liked his porridge and swore to Geralt - emphasising her point by waving a large knife in his direction - no funny potions had ever been added to it in her kitchen.

After an unsatisfying afternoon of interrogations, Geralt was forced to suffer through words of admiration and dozens of questions about his life of adventures all evening. He would have preferred to stay in the stable with Roach, but he wanted to watch the people who visited this inn and hear if and how they talked about Jaskier.

He didn’t sleep that night, but sat in the common room after everyone else had left, thinking.

He’d heard nothing suspicious. Jaskier seemed to be well loved in this town, unlikely as it was, he’d made a name for himself as a sweet talented bard who wouldn’t hurt a fly. The Bewitching Bard of Bellmare they called him. Geralt even caused offence when he subtly introduced the subject of adultery.

Geralt had a lot of experience tracking and investigating monsters, both magical or human in nature. He’d found no trace of one here. The only way he would be able to solve this crime was with the cooperation of the victim, and Jaskier, even in his intoxicated state, hadn’t seemed very cooperative. 

If Jaskier was hiding something, from Geralt, on purpose, Geralt couldn’t help him.

Jaskier slept all evening and night, but in the morning, when Geralt quietly entered his room to check on him again, the bed was empty.

He found Jaskier in the second place he searched for him, looking a lot healthier than he had last night, combing his fingers through Roach’s manes and whispering to her.

Jaskier jumped when he saw Geralt and quickly turned away, wiping at his eyes.

Geralt snorted. “Did you honestly miss my horse that much?”

Jaskier turned back to face him with a defiant look on his face. “No,” he said, but his voice was unsteady and he didn’t meet Geralt’s eyes.

Geralt shook his head. “How are you feeling?”

Jaskier smiled, raised his arms and made a full turn for Geralt to inspect his healthy body. “Great. All better. Told you I just had to sleep it off.”

“Hmm. How often has this happened?”

Jaskier shrugged. “Only twice so far. It’s just a prank, Geralt, makes me go a bit…wonky. No worse than being drunk. Oh, and you’ll be glad to hear I can play my lute all evening if I want now. My arm only gets sore after a few hours.”

Glad wasn’t the right word to describe what Geralt was feeling.

“I think you should leave this place. You only stayed because you were weary from travelling. Looks like you’ve had plenty of time to rest,” he said.

Jaskier had turned away from him and resumed pampering Roach. “Is that…an invitation?” he asked carefully.

“Call it what you want,” Geralt said. “I’m only passing through, leaving today.”

Jaskier was still looking the other way. “Thank you for worrying, but I’m quite happy here. Have a safe journey.” He hugged Roach’s neck as he said it, so Geralt wasn’t sure he was even talking to him. Jaskier turned around, eyes on the ground, clapped Geralt’s shoulder and walked back towards the inn.

Geralt stayed where he was, dumbfounded.

Roach snorted. 

“What?” Geralt said. “That wasn’t a rejection. I didn’t ask him anything.”

Roach didn’t respond.

If it wasn’t a rejection, why did it feel like one?

Jaskier might be acting strange, but after this visit to Bellmare, Geralt worried about himself more. There was something wrong with him.

There was no reason for him to linger here, yet leaving felt wrong. Nothing he’d ever done before had felt this wrong, and Geralt had seriously messed things up before. Still, there was no reason to linger.

He said goodbye to Jaskier, who waved him off as a distant friend might. He seemed healthy again, which should be a relief, but Geralt felt his restlessness return the moment Roach crossed the bridge out of town. Roach was restless too, but that could be explained by the lengthy brushing session and treats Jaskier had given her that morning.

Maybe Geralt hadn’t had a distraction for too long. 

He visited the first whorehouse he found in the next town he entered. There was a sweet, beautiful woman, clever enough to ask him what he expected from her in just the right way to make it seem more like a natural being together than business from her side.

Geralt fucked her, but there was no passion in it, and it didn’t ease his restlessness or fill the hole inside him where it felt like something was missing. Even the whore got bored and pushed him on his back to finish the job herself.

When her moans and his grunts died down, a crushing silence returned to the small room. This silence followed Geralt everywhere these days. He was getting sick of it.

“Talk to me,” he told the woman when she’d rolled off him and started rearranging her dress.

She didn’t ask what he meant, like a true professional. She just started babbling, about the weather, about the dullness of this town, about his muscles and size and how the colour of his hair intrigued her.

It wasn’t what he needed. Geralt shushed and payed her. She was good, but hers wasn’t the voice he wanted to hear.

A contract seemed a welcome distraction, but after a few questions, it appeared the frightened family that had called on him was only being terrorised by a slightly above average sized wild boar.

It wasn’t a mutated wild boar, it hadn’t suddenly gained terrifying powers from eating magically contaminated mushrooms, it was just…a large pig.

Geralt hunted and killed it and roasted some of its meat over his fire that night. The rest he took with him and gifted to the family to eat. He also gave them back some of the coin they’d paid him. It didn’t feel right to accept it for such an easy assignment.

After this, which surely was something the hero from Jaskier’s songs in Bellmare would have done, Geralt foolishly expected them to look at him kindly.

He was wrong. Everyone, from the smallest child to the father of the family, had some level of fear in their eyes when they looked at him after he’d deposited the cleaned carcass and coin purse on their table.

Maybe this was to be expected from a family who thought a boar was a monster, but still, it stung. 

The mother was brave enough to invite him to stay for dinner, but Geralt politely declined and left.

Two weeks later, when entering a new town at dusk, Geralt overheard three girls chatting about a bard performing at the tavern tonight. “He’s sooo dreamy,” one of them sighed.

For some inexplicable reason, Geralt’s heart started beating faster as he listened on and heard another girl mention how much she loved that song, Toss a Coin to your Witcher.

“He’s finally made a smart move and left that shithole of a town,” Geralt said to Roach. “Let’s go see how he’s doing.”

The local tavern was a small, crooked place. The air inside was damp with the smell of sweat and ale. It seemed like the kind of place Jaskier would hate, and yet, achingly familiar music sounded when he entered. Geralt searched the crowded room for its source.

The bard was standing on a table and just started singing the moment Geralt spotted him.

He was a handsome young man, with dark skin, short wavy hair, a pretty face and an athletic figure. His singing voice was alright, his playing mediocre. Geralt could see why the girls liked him, but he didn’t.

Whispers started around him, buzzing around the room like insects until all heads were turned his way. The bard cut off his song and followed the example of his audience.

All Geralt did was look at him, not even with anger. Maybe some disappointment showed on his face, but nothing that warranted the bard’s terrified reaction.

“I’m sorry!” the young man exclaimed, jumping down from the table and hiding behind someone. “I didn’t know you were here. I see I’ve displeased you. I’ll never sing it again!”

The room had gone quiet. Everybody was watching him. Geralt cursed that damned silence that followed him everywhere.

“I don’t care about the stupid song,” Geralt said. “Sing it as much as you want. The person who wrote it will be flattered.”

“Thank you, sir witcher, sir,” the bard sqeaked. “Julian Alfred Pankratz is his name, sir. I know. I do tell people it’s his song whenever I sing it. I admire him greatly.”

“He sings it better,” Geralt mumbled as he turned to leave.

Someone blocked his path.

“Cute piece of ass, isn’t he? Too bad he has the heart and courage of a mouse.”

“Yennefer,” Geralt greeted flatly. He swerved around the sorceress and left the inn.

Yennefer followed him. “Oh my, what’s with the face?” she asked. 

Geralt turned around. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He opened his mouth to tell her to leave him be, but she was faster.

“Do you feel that guilty about leaving me in Rinde?” She looked into his eyes. “No, didn’t think so. Well, whatever. It was a good fuck. I’m still pissed you let my Djinn escape though.”

Geralt knew he wasn’t going to get rid of her easily. She seemed determined to talk to him. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Found a new victim to help you with your mysterious plan?”

“I have a goal,” Yennefer said. “I’m working on it. Back to you. You still haven’t explained why you look like someone killed your favourite pet. Didn’t hearing that cute boy inside sing your song cheer you up? I thought you had a thing for bards.”

“I don’t have a-“

“Where’s yours anyway?” Yennefer stood on her toes to look over Geralt’s shoulder. “I thought that lovesick idiot followed you everywhere.”

“He’s not here,” Geralt bit out. “…what do you mean lovesick?”

“Oh, come on, he’s head over heels for you, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” Yennefer laughed and looked into his eyes again. After a few moments, she stopped laughing and her expression changed from teasing to surprised.

“Oh my, you really haven’t. I thought it was unrequited from his side and you just pitied him and kept him around for amusement.” She looked deeper. Her mouth fell open. “But it isn’t! By the gods, it isn’t!”

As refreshing as it was to finally have someone look at him without fear in their eyes, Geralt wished he hadn’t ran into Yennefer right this moment. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about bards or have someone poke around in his mind, but he knew she wouldn’t let this go.

“I don’t care what you think you see. He’s not ‘head over heels’ for me. We’re not travelling together anymore because he got tired of it. How do you explain that?”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “Did he literally say he got tired of traveling with you, or did he get tired of longing for your attention and you never showing any feelings around him?”

“He said he got tired of traveling with me. He never mentioned any feelings.” There, Geralt thought, you’re wrong this time, witch.

Yennefer gave him an exasperated look. 

“Have you ever actually told him you like having him around?”

Geralt thought of all the times he wanted to send Jaskier away, but didn’t, and the times he looked out for him, took care of him. “I’ve given him plenty of reason to believe that.”

“That’s great,” Yennefer said, nodding and smiling. “Lovely.” She pinched her nose like she was developing a headache. “Gods, Geralt, that’s such a typical man answer. Have you _told_ him?”


	5. Not letting me die

“It doesn’t matter,” Geralt said. “You’re wrong. Jaskier doesn’t care what I say to him. He does whatever he wants. I’ve told him to fuck off often enough and he never listened, and then, when I stopped telling him to leave, he left.”

Geralt knew he cared for Jaskier. He’d known the moment he felt bad about letting him fall in that stupid puddle, he’d known because whenever Jaskier stopped talking Geralt had missed his voice, he’d known when he thought that monster had killed him and it felt like the whole world had ended.

Some nights the only thing Geralt could think about was the desperate way Jaskier had hugged him when he first left Bellmare, and what it meant, and regretted not hugging him back like he wanted to. 

But Yennefer had to be wrong about Jaskier’s feelings for him, because the time they met after that, when Geralt had caved and more or less asked Jaskier to leave with him, all he got was something that felt like a rejection and a pat on the shoulder.

He knew he cared, and he cared enough to let Jaskier go, because that would be better for him, safer. Jaskier had probably only seen Geralt as a temporary distraction, and that was fine. It broke Geralt’s heart, but it was fine, he could deal with that and move on.

He tried to walk away, but Yennefer followed him, swarming him like an annoying fly, a fly you can’t swat at because it possesses magic powerful enough to kill you in seconds. “Why do you care?” he bit out. “Can’t you just leave me be?”

“I don’t care,” Yennefer countered, “I don’t give a shit about the stupid bard, but this place is a dump, I’m bored, and you’re intriguing me. Don’t you think it’s strange? That idiot always followed you around, risking his life in the process, and then suddenly doesn’t want to anymore. What happened? Did something happen?”

Geralt looked away, clenching his jaw. He wanted to tell her off for calling Jaskier an idiot, but he’d done it himself plenty of times. He ended up simply answering her question. “He got hurt. But he recovered. The last time I saw him he was fine. It can’t be about that.”

“I think you’re wrong.” Yennefer said. “Was he truly fine the last time you saw him?”

Geralt had felt like there was something wrong with him and he needed a distraction. He’d thought maybe that was his weak heart longing for Jaskier, but what if it was something else? 

Witchers don’t feel fear. Geralt hadn’t felt fear for a very long time, and yet Yennefer’s words sent a shiver through his body.

“Well, he was…there was something…” Geralt shook his head. “He was fine afterwards. He doesn’t need me.” He looked around at the town Yennefer accurately described as a dump, where some wimp was singing Jaskier’s songs and Yennefer herself was probably up to some crazy shit again. This definitely wasn’t a place he would find the distraction he needed.

“I need to go.” He gently but firmly pushed Yennefer aside and walked towards Roach.

Yennefer grabbed his wrist. Geralt turned around, pulled his arm free and glared at her. 

“You’re running from something,” Yennefer said. “You think you can escape it by running away, but you can’t. It will follow you everywhere. You have to run towards it and face your feelings, or they’ll never go away.”

Geralt wasn’t following Yennefer advice. He wasn’t. He’d left the town, veered off the main road and made camp by the side of a stream, where he hoped the sound of running water would lull him to sleep.

He lay awake most of the night, watching the stars, and suddenly remembered someone mentioning a monster sighting somewhere in the general direction of Bellmare. 

The town mentioned might also have been Bullmar or Caelfare, but the source of this information was man so drunk he’d had little control over his tongue, so he wouldn’t know for sure until he checked it out. There was no harm in that.

He set off at dawn. Roach was restless beneath him. Geralt didn’t know if it was in reaction to his mood or for some other reason.

After a few futile attempts at reigning her in, he just let her set the pace. As they sped on in a firm trot, they almost ran into a horse drawn wagon that was slowly traveling in the opposite direction and had been hidden by a curve in the road and the dense forest around them. Geralt was lost in thought as it happened. Roach swerved just in time.

The two horses pulling the wagon startled and reared. The driver swore and tried to calm them.

Geralt turned Roach around to apologise. 

The man had successfully regained control over his horses and was busy cursing that reckless fool of a traveler. He seemed of a mind to spit in Geralt’s direction when he stopped beside him, but suddenly his eyes grew wide, he ducked his head and apologised profusely.

It took him a moment to place the man’s face, but eventually Geralt recognised him as the cloth merchant from Zaralma.

“I didn’t mean to startle your horses,” Geralt said. “The fault is mine. My apologies.”

The man hesitantly raised his head.

“I thought you were based in Zaralma’s trade quarter. Is business so bad that you have to take to the road?”

“No, sir witcher,” the man stammered, “Business is good, my wife’s minding the stall, but word has reached us that a powerful and wealthy sorceress with a taste for fashion has taken up residence in a small town in the direction you’re traveling from. I thought she might like to take a look at my wares.”

“She might,” Geralt said. “You’re a braver man than I thought you to be. Let me give you one piece of advice. Don’t insult her, she won’t hesitate to curse you.”

The man shuddered and Geralt grinned. Teasing humans wasn’t going to take his mind off Jaskier, but it did provide a little distraction.

His mind did snap back to Jaskier immediately. 

Maybe running into this man this way was a sign from the Gods. Geralt didn’t much believe in signs, but still…

“Do you still have that cloak I looked at?”

The merchant shuddered again. “I do. No one has even looked at it since the story spread that it displeased and angered a witcher. Should I burn it?”

Geralt rolled his eyes and sighed. “How much?”

Geralt just happened to pass through Bellmare when it was time to give Roach a break. He was a little thirsty himself, so the inn was a logical place to stop. The turquoise cloak he had probably overpaid the Zaralman cloth merchant for that sat rolled up in a saddle bag had nothing to do with it. He had no idea if Jaskier was even still here. 

His welcome was much like last time, happy faces and waves all around. Geralt groaned. He’d forgotten about that. At least no children were thrust into his arms as he dismounted.

It was early afternoon and the common room of the inn was deserted. The innkeeper only appeared the third time Geralt called.

“We serve no food until the evening, witcher,” he said. “Business has dropped since that drunkard stopped performing here.”

“The bard left?” Geralt asked.

“Threw him out, I did,” the innkeeper said brusquely. “That stupid bard got dead drunk near every day in the end. He must have had a secret stash of something strong, because he hardly touched my quality ale, but he was unable perform half the time. I got sick of it a week ago, when he couldn’t even sit straight anymore halfway through the morning. Hadn’t even finished his porridge. I threw him out to sleep it off in the street. He was barely conscious, so I checked if he was still alive about an hour later and he was gone, haven’t seen him since.”

Nothing the man told him helped Geralt get rid of his feeling of unease. It only grew stronger. Something was wrong. Jaskier might be an idiot, but not a drunk.

“Do you know in which direction he traveled?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Couldn’t say, didn’t see him leave, haven’t heard from anyone who did either. The fool disappeared into thin air.”

Something cold took root in the hole Jaskier had left in Geralt’s chest.

“Are you going to look for him?” the innkeeper asked.

“Yes,” Geralt said. Looking for Jaskier wasn’t what he’d planned to do, but he needed to or he may never have peace of mind again. Maybe Yennefer was right about some things.

“Good,” the man said, “then I can return his things through you. I thought about selling them, but it didn’t feel right. He did cheer up this town and make me some coin on his good days.” He disappeared through a door and returned a minute later carrying Jaskier’s bag and the leather case that usually contained his lute.

The cold feeling clamped down around Geralt’s heart, like icy fingers, squeezing.

The innkeeper saw him watching and misinterpreted the look. “The instrument is inside. I didn’t touch it, don’t worry.”

Maybe Yennefer was right and Geralt didn’t know the bard as well as he thought he did, but he knew for a fact that Jaskier didn’t go anywhere without his lute.

The innkeeper simply handed Geralt all of Jaskier’s most prized earthly possessions as if they were a single handkerchief left behind by a scatterbrained gentlewoman. “If you find him, tell him he’ll always be welcome here as long as he can keep off the drink.”

“You really don’t know where he went?”

The man shook his head. “Can’t help you.”

Geralt wandered outside in a daze. His thoughts were running a mile an hour, but his brain didn’t come up with any answers. Where was Jaskier? Why had he turned into a drunkard? It wasn’t like him. Had someone continually poisoned him and should Geralt have stayed longer to find out who did it?

That was the one question he kept coming back to. Should he have stayed? Had he failed Jaskier somehow?

Some woman walked up to him, wanting to shake his hand, and ask some stupid question about his adventures. Geralt interrupted her by asking if she’d seen Jaskier leave a week ago. She hadn’t. She missed his songs though, and asked Geralt to tell Jaskier to come back here when he found him.

Every person he met he asked the same question. No one had answers for him. As he grew more worried and irritable with every negative answer, people started avoiding him, shooting each other looks of warning and taking detours to not have to pass by him.

Geralt had wandered around the town’s main road, questioning and being disappointed, for about an hour when an old woman approached him.

“You’re looking for the bard,” she said. Her voice was slow, but clear, and her face was wrinkly, but the piercing look in her pale green eyes betrayed a hale mind.

“I am,” Geralt said, a faint flicker hope sparked within him. “Have you seen him?” He looked at the woman more closely. She was too old to be one of Jaskier’s love affairs or to even get out much. How much could she know?

Her hair was partly grey as silver, partly white as milk, and her back was bent with age. She was wearing a very simple but clean dark blue frock under a grey apron and carried a basket filled with meat and vegetables.

“You’re Geralt of Rivia,” the woman said. It was more a statement than a question, but Geralt still confirmed it with a nod of his head.

“My name is Jana,” the woman said. “Widow of the former leatherworker of Bellmare. I’ve never been as skilled in my husband’s craft as he was, but I can see your shoulder piece could do with a repair.”

Geralt was growing impatient. Never mind introductions. Jaskier could be in trouble somewhere.

Jana probably noticed, but ignored him. She eyed him critically. “Are you a friend of the bard?”

“I like to think I am.”

“How well do you know him? What’s his real name?”

“Julian. The rest of it he doesn’t like being called by friends, but if you must know it’s Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.” Geralt didn’t know why the woman would question him like this, but it felt like he was being tested.

She nodded. “And stuffed dates are his favourite food.”

“No,” Geralt said. “He hates them with a passion.” He was glad he’d actually listened to some of Jaskier’s mindless blabbering on the road.

Jana nodded again, approvingly. “Follow me,” she said. “I know where he is.”

The spark of hope flamed up in Geralt’s chest and it felt like he could breathe normally again for the first time since he’d left the inn. “Is he hiding from someone?”

Jana didn’t answer him, but Geralt took that as a confirmation. Jaskier seemed well loved in this town, but it wasn’t unlikely he’d made a dangerous enemy after all.

“Why do you doubt I’m his friend?” he asked. “I thought he had been singing about me?”

“I know his songs about you are full of love,” Jana said. “But he calls out for you a lot when he dreams, and his voice always sounds so pained. All that tells me is he cares for you, and you hurt him.”

Geralt felt as scandalised as Jaskier must have when he compared his singing to a fillingless pie. “I haven’t hurt him!” He said. “He left me!” He didn’t know why he felt the need to that last part. He also wondered how Jana knew whom Jaskier called out for in his dreams.

Jana stopped walking and looked at him long enough that Geralt started to grow impatient again. “I’ll believe you.” She pointed a crooked finger at him. “But if you hurt him, I’ll make you regret it.”

It was absolutely ridiculous that a frail old human would threaten a witcher, but right now she was the only lead he had to finding Jaskier. Geralt kept his mouth firmly shut and followed her.

Jana led him to a small house near edge of town. Hovel probably was a better word for it. None of the walls stood straight and the low roof was covered in moss. Geralt had to duck to fit through the door. 

There was only one room, plainly furnished, with a fireplace in the middle of the wall opposite to the door. Close to the smouldering fire stood a low bed, and on it lay Jaskier.

Geralt’s body moved forward of its own accord and he sunk down to his knees beside the bed. 

Jaskier was unconscious, covered in a sheen of sweat and shivering with fever. He seemed thinner, and paler than the time he was rapidly losing blood when Geralt had pulled him out from under the tree roots.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called out to him.

Jaskier didn’t respond to his name in any way, too deep into his fever sleep to be aware of his surroundings.

“What ails him?” Geralt demanded of the woman, who was standing behind him now. He gently pressed the back of his hand to the bard’s cheek. Jaskier was burning up.

“He’s very ill, is all I know,” Jana said. “It comes and goes, but the bad episodes are longer and worse than they were when I picked him up out of the mud in front of the inn last week. I don’t think it’ll be long before he’ll never wake up again.”

The icy grip of something that couldn’t be but seemed very much like fear took hold of Geralt again. 

Jaskier moaned and Geralt’s attention snapped back to him. Jaskier’s breathing grew laboured and he started turning his head from side to side on his pillow, making miserable little sounds of pain.

Geralt clenched his fists at his sides. It couldn’t be true. Jaskier couldn’t die, not yet. Geralt had left him in a dull insignificant town, far from monsters or political conflict, thinking he would be safe, not the opposite.

“Has someone drugged him again?” If that was the case Geralt might be able to find an antidote.

“I don’t know.” Jana rummaged around in the corner of her house she used as a kitchen and held out a bowl of water and a soft rag to him. Geralt looked at the items in her hands, unsure what to do with them.

“I’ve found he calms down a bit when you cool his face and stroke his hair. It’s all we can do until he wakes up again.”

Geralt had been lightly running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and dabbing his face with a rag soaked in cool water for what felt like an eternity when Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open. His breathing had slowed almost to a healthy pace, and the moans had stopped a while ago.

Geralt froze as Jaskier, with some difficulty, turned his head to look at him with glassy eyes.

For a moment Geralt feared the bard wouldn’t recognise him, but then Jaskier’s face broke into a smile.

“Geralt,” he said with a croaky voice. “You’re not a dream. You always yell at me in my dreams.”

“Why would I yell at you?” Geralt asked, only keeping his own voice steady with difficulty.

“Because I properly said goodbye to Roach, I cried and everything, but not to you. I couldn’t do it.” Jaskier swallowed. Water filled his eyes, clung to his eyelashes and a single tear ran down his cheek. Geralt felt in that moment that he would be capable of killing a man for making those eyes cry. “I couldn’t have let you go if I did.”

Geralt wanted to yell at Jaskier now, demand why he had let him leave at all, but he had to know something else first. He had to know why Jaskier seemed to be so sure he was dying, and why he’d known weeks ago and never told him.

“What happened to you? Did someone slip something in your porridge again?”

Jaskier shook his head. “Made that up to get you to stop worrying. It almost didn’t work.”

“It didn’t work at all,” Geralt bit out. “Tell me,” he urged gently, “what do you know?”

“I’m ill,” Jaskier said. “Fever, headaches, everything hurts. It’s getting worse. The healers don’t know what it is. No one I’ve asked was able to help me, but I know I’m dying, I can feel it.”

“How long have you known?”

“That I’m dying? A couple of weeks,” Jaskier said.

“That you were ill.”

“Does it matter?” Jaskier avoided the question.

“Yes it fucking matters.” Geralt unwittingly raised his voice. “Never mind how I feel about you keeping this from me. We need to know what caused it. Who did you sleep with in this town? Whores? Where do they live?”

Jaskier turned his head away from him. Geralt still saw that more tears streamed down his face. “Yes, you’re right, I probably got it from some whore. Well, if she suffered from the same disease she’s most likely dead by now. Let it go, Geralt, you can’t save me.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt put his fingers on Jaskier’s chin and pulled his head back to face him.

“Stop.” Jana interrupted him before he would really start yelling. “He needs to eat something while he still can.” She was holding a bowl filled with broth, judging from the smell.

Geralt closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. “Let me.” He held out his hand.

She eyed him suspiciously, but eventually handed him the bowl. “Don’t make him cry again,” she warned.

Jaskier had wiped away his tears and smiled when Geralt looked back at him. “I like her,” he said. “She reminds me of you.”

“You think of me as a frail old woman?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier scoffed. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Geralt helped Jaskier sit up, biting his tongue in frustration about how weak Jaskier’s body felt under his hands, and brought the bowl of broth to his lips. Jaskier reluctantly took a few sips.

“I’m glad you came back,” he said. “You didn’t have to, I didn’t want you to see me like this, but still, I’m glad.”

Geralt didn’t say anything. If he thought about the situation too hard, he would get angry again, and all the anger in the world wouldn’t be strong enough to kill this monster.

Jaskier finished half the bowl and then erupted into a coughing fit.

Geralt stroked his back as he regained his breath and helped him lie down. He could feel Jaskier’s temperature rise and see his eyes grow less focused.

“Jaskier,” he tried again, softer. “Let me help you. Do you know anything at all about this illness?”

But Jaskier couldn’t answer him anymore. His body went limp and his eyes had closed.

“Julian,” Geralt tried.

“He won’t wake up again for a few hours,” Jana said. Geralt had completely forgotten about her. The ‘if he wakes up at all’ went unspoken, but hung in the air between them.

“I’ll get some fresh water from the well,” the woman said, and left the house. She finally seemed satisfied enough in Geralt’s treatment of Jaskier to leave them alone.

Geralt made a decision. He pulled the blanket up to Jaskier’s chin and tucked it in around him. Then he slid an arm under Jaskier’s shoulders and one under his knees and lifted him off the bed. Jaskier didn’t weigh as much as he had when Geralt carried him through the forest after the monster attack. How could he, probably keeping down only one bowl of light broth every day.

He ducked as he stepped through the door, careful not to let Jaskier’s body bump into anything, and started walking in the direction of the inn, where Roach was waiting for him.

Very soon he found his path blocked by an angry old woman.

“Don’t you dare,” Jana warned him. “Take him back inside right now.”

“I want to help him,” Geralt said. “He says healers couldn’t do anything, but there is a powerful sorceress not half a day’s ride from here. If I take him to her she might be able to save him.”

“He’s not fit to travel,” Jana argued. “And there is rain coming.” She pointed at the sky. He’ll be dead before half a day has passed. Go, get your sorceress, but leave him here, inside, by my fire.”

Geralt snarled at her, but she didn’t so much as flinch. He knew she was right, but he hated it. Jaskier might not even survive half a day whatever they did, and Yennefer might not want to come back with him.

“I’ll take care of him,” Jana said. “If it wasn’t for me, he would have died on the street in front of the inn a week ago. I never gave up hope that the witcher he calls out for in his dreams might come back for him and find a cure, but I won’t let you crush that hope by letting him freeze to death on the back of your horse.”

Geralt caved when he felt Jaskier starting to shiver in his arms. He carried him back inside and tucked him in as Jana added some wood to the fire.

“Get your sorceress,” the old woman told him. “May the Gods give strength to your horse and grant you safe passage. I’ll look after him as best I can.”

Before he left, Geralt briefly, tenderly, pressed his lips to Jaskier’s forehead.

It wasn’t anywhere near a proper goodbye, with crying, as Jaskier had described it, but Geralt didn’t want to say goodbye yet.


	6. Needing each other

Maybe the Gods had heard Jana’s prayer, or maybe Roach somehow understood why they needed to hurry, but Geralt made it back to the town he had left only yesterday evening before nightfall. 

They were both completely soaked by the rain, just as Jana had foretold, Roach was steaming with it.

The imposter was still playing and singing at the inn, but Yennefer wasn’t there. Geralt asked around, scaring people with his frantic looks. People stammered something about not knowing anything and quickly walked away, like most of them had in Bellmare.

Geralt was beginning to understand that walking up to humans with a crazed look in his eyes and yelling a question at them maybe wasn’t the best way to get an honest answer, not if he didn’t follow through with some torture.

When he finally did run into someone brave enough to talk to him and found Yennefer it was, unsurprisingly, in some nobleman’s fancy mansion.

The man himself was nowhere to be seen, but Yennefer was dining at his table like she owned the place.

“Back already?” she asked. She tilted her head. “I can sense you knocked out my client’s guards outside. You’re not in a bad mood again are you?”

“Jaskier is very ill,” Geralt said. There was no time for small talk. “Will you help him?”

“Again?” Yennefer asked. She rose and walked up to him, deliberately slow, purposefully getting on his nerves. “Have you found another Djinn?”

“No,” Geralt said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he’s dying, and no healer can help.”

Yennefer raised her eyebrows. “Dying? And yet he left you? I’d never have guessed he was the self sacrificing type.”

“No more idle chatter,” Geralt said. “Please. I’ll do whatever you ask of me, I beg you.”

Yennefer smirked. “A begging witcher. That’s a good start.” She stepped even closer, until her breasts were very nearly touching his chest. She looked into his eyes and stood on her toes, bringing her mouth so close to his he could feel her breath on his lips.

Geralt didn’t flinch, he didn’t move and didn’t avert his eyes. If this was what she wanted, if it was what was necessary to save Jaskier, he would give it to her. He’d fucked without feeling so many times before. Why would this be any different?

Yennefer blew out a quick breath through her nose and stepped back. “Don’t you think I have any pride?” she asked. “We had a good time in Rinde, but then you hadn’t realised the depth of your feelings for him, or they had yet to grow to this level. I knew I didn’t have your heart back then, but now I see I won’t even have your mind.”

“Please,” Geralt said. “I’ll try. Anything you want.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Oh well, I’m bored out of my mind anyway. I’ll just take your word that you’ll help me out some time in the future if I ever have need of you. It can’t hurt to have a witcher at my command.”

“I give you my word,” Geralt said.

Yennefer smirked. “Really, even if what I’ll ask of you is to kill a bunch of innocent people?”

Geralt clenched his jaw, but didn’t protest.

“My, my, I’m impressed,” Yennefer said. “Oh, stop looking so worried. I won’t ask that from you, I was just curious. Where’s your bard?”

“Bellmare. Can you teleport us there?” Geralt would much rather travel on horseback, but he felt there was no time to lose.

“Fine,” Yennefer shrugged. She made a face. “Let me guess, you’ll want to take your horse as well.”

Roach absolutely hated portals, even more than Yennefer hated spending the energy it took to enable her to pass through unharmed. Roach usually walked wherever Geralt led her without complained, but now she pulled her head back.

“Easy girl,” Geralt said. “I hate them too, but we need to get to Jaskier as fast as we can.”

Roach’s ears perked up at the mention of Jaskier’s name.

Jana was waiting for them just outside her little house. She didn’t seem at all surprised by a portal opening and closing mere meters from her front door. Maybe she’d witnessed magic at close range before, or her worry for Jaskier overruled any other feeling. She did seem very fond of him.

It was dark outside. The rain had passed. It had refreshed the air, but not completely extinguished the warmth the sun had left. It was a soft late summer night.

“How is he?” Geralt left Roach outside and sped past Jana, not waiting for an answer.

“No change,” the woman said behind him.

Jaskier lay unconscious on his bed by the fire, the flickering light of the flames reflected off the thin sheen of sweat on his face. Geralt could hear he had difficulty breathing again. 

His hands hovered over Jaskier’s body, but there was nothing he could do. He shot Yennefer a helpless look.

“Yes, yes,” she said, stepping closer. “Move out of the way.”

Geralt stepped back.

Yennefer passed a hand over Jaskier’s face. “How long has he been showing these symptoms?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said. “He wouldn’t talk to me about it.”

“I might be able to wake him up for a while,” Yennefer murmured. “Geralt, go…fetch some water from the well outside. Leave the door open, the fresh air will help him breathe.”

Geralt really didn’t want to go, but he understood Yennefer needed some space to work. He needed to see how Roach was doing anyway. He’d worked her hard today and then pulled her through a portal and his only thoughts had been with Jaskier.

Geralt quickly took Roach to the inn and payed a stableboy to take care of her. He pulled up a bucket of water from the well and was about to duck through the door of Jana’s house when something he heard Yennefer say stopped him.

“Geralt is outside. I have no fucking clue why you wouldn’t want him to know, since he cares about you more than anything, but you can talk freely now.”

“I just don’t want to be a burden to him,” Jaskier’s voice was weak but clear. Geralt breathed a sigh of relief at hearing him talk, but the words stung. “Not physically and not on his conscience either,” Jaskier said.

Geralt clenched his fist around the handle of his bucket as Yennefer snorted. “You’ve never worried about being a burden to anyone in your life, you thrive off annoying people.”

“Geralt is different,” Jaskier said quietly.

Geralt wanted to enter the house, to tell Jaskier that he wasn’t a burden to him at all, but he also wanted to hear what Jaskier had to say that he didn’t want Geralt to know.

“Stop questioning him about things that are not important right now,” Jana’s stern voice sounded.

“When did you first experience symptoms, bard? Have you been in contact with anyone who was ill? Have you been cursed?”

“No,” Jaskier said. “It was when I got these scars.” Geralt imagined he was pointing at his chest and arm, Jaskier didn’t have many other scars to speak of.

He almost dropped the bucket and gave himself away.

“At first I thought I was just weak from the blood loss, but it came and went in a pattern. Every couple of days I would feel ill. At first I could pass it off as a lack of sleep or drunkenness, but the spells happened more often and lasted longer.”

Something snapped inside Geralt and he had to put a hand on the roof of Jana’s house to keep himself standing. Jaskier had been ill all this time, even back when he was still traveling with him, back when he asked to be left behind, back when Geralt had just left without thinking anything of it.

Yennefer’s shout pulled him out of his daze. “Witcher! Stop lurking behind the door and get in here, I need your help!”

Geralt dashed inside and saw that Jaskier had lost consciousness again. Yennefer was removing his shirt and threw a frantic look over her shoulder.

“He’s been poisoned. The poison has been in his body far too long. If I don’t draw it out now we’ll lose him.”

“What do you want me to do?” Geralt asked.

“Hold him. This is going to hurt,” Yennefer said grimly.

Geralt put down his bucket and sat behind Jaskier on the bed. On Yennefer’s instructions he pulled Jaskier up into a sitting position against his chest and wrapped his hands loosely around Jaskier’s upper arms. Jaskier’s head rested lifelessly against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt didn’t understand the need to hold him, surely he wasn’t in any state to struggle.

“He won’t break,” Yennefer said. “I need you to really hold him still. This requires a tricky branch of magic. I need to be able to focus and I can’t if he’s moving around.”

“I’ve got him, Yennefer,” Geralt said. “Get on with it.”

Yennefer threw him a glare. “Don’t tell me what to do again.” She lifted her hands and slowly waved them over Jaskier’s body, closing her eyes and speaking ancient words.

Jana’s fire almost completely died and then rekindled on its own. The house creaked around them.

Jaskier’s body shuddered against Geralt’s chest. Geralt tightened his grip on his arms. Jaskier remained unconscious, but Geralt could still feel he was in pain.

When Jaskier let out a pitiful moan, Geralt glared at Yennefer.

She still had her eyes closed, but she sensed his gaze on her. “Shut up, Geralt, this is necessary.”

“Can’t you give him something against the pain?” Geralt snarled.

“No, I’m removing a foreign substance from his blood, adding one would only make it more difficult.”

Jaskier was writhing now, fighting Geralt’s grip. Geralt had to hold on to his arms tight enough to probably leave bruises. He hated it.

When Jaskier’s eyes flew open and he screamed, Geralt wrapped his arms protectively around Jaskier’s upper body and growled at Yennefer.

Yennefer opened her eyes and took a step back, looking at Geralt warily.

“Calm down, big bad wolf,” she said. “If you try to bite me next I swear I’ll burn you to a crisp and your beloved bard with you. I’m trying to save him, you oaf.”

Geralt tried to calm himself down. Jaskier’s eyes had closed again and he was breathing fast, sagging against Geralt’s chest. His scream still rang in Geralt’s ears.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said. “I’m sorry, I can do it.”

Yennefer stepped closer again. Her eyes were kinder than before. Maybe she didn’t like Jaskier very much, but Geralt could see she didn’t truly mean him harm.

“I’ll need to reopen one or both of the wounds. Don’t jump at me when he starts bleeding. The poison needs to leave his body.”

“Not the one on his arm,” Geralt said. “Please, if you can.”

Yennefer nodded. She looked more serious now than she had all evening, worried even.

Geralt pulled back his arms to grant her access to Jaskier’s chest and grabbed his arms again.

Geralt didn’t know if Jaskier could hear him, but he whispered reassurances against the side of his head. Jaskier’s hair clung to his forehead, covered in sweat. Silent tears were streaming from his eyes. Geralt would do anything, anything right this moment to take away his pain, except let him go. He couldn’t let Jaskier leave him, not like this.

“Hold on,” he whispered. “She’ll be done soon.” He didn’t know if that was true, but he hoped it was. Jaskier whimpered, almost as if he’d heard him.

Jaskier started screaming again when the edges of the cut on his chest were pulled apart by an invisible force and a green slimy fluid slowly seeped out, mixed with his blood.

Geralt held on to him tightly, and remained in control by chanting a mantra in his head. He was a witcher, he normally didn’t fear, he hunted beasts and monsters, he protected. He was protecting Jaskier right now. Yennefer was saving Jaskier, Jaskier would smile again, and talk and sing. Geralt was a witcher, and as long as Jaskier lived, he wouldn’t mind having one fear.

Yennefer seemed exhausted. She only managed to partly close the cut in Jaskier’s chest when all the poison was gone. Jana helped Geralt cover it in healing herbs and wrap it with fresh bandages.

They lay Jaskier down on his pillow and covered him with the blanket. Yennefer pressed her palm against his forehead.

“The poison is gone and I’ve put him in a healing sleep. If he wakes up, he’ll live.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said. He wasn’t looking at her but at Jaskier. When he reached out to feel Jaskier’s temperature, Yennefer stopped him. “No touching.” She turned around and left the house.

Geralt followed her outside. “Thank you,” he said again, “truly.”

“Don’t forget your promise,” Yennefer said. She suddenly turned around, pressed a brief kiss to Geralt’s cheek and whispered an ancient word. “Now I’ll know where to find you if I have need of you.”

“I won’t forget,” Geralt said.

Yennefer turned away as if she was about to leave, then changed her mind and looked back at him.

“The monster that poisoned him, you killed it?”

“Yes,” Geralt said.

Yennefer nodded. “Impressive.”

“Do you know what it was?” Geralt asked.

“I’ve never seen one myself. I’d heard of them, and I saw its image in the bard’s eyes. They were created a long time ago, by a very powerful but bitter sorceress.”

“To what purpose?” Geralt asked. Jaskier had a talent for angering people, but personally insulting a sorceress who lived long before he was even born seemed a little out of his league.

“To hurt people like she’d been hurt,” Yennefer said. “Someone broke her heart, I guess, no one knows exactly what happened. She’s disappeared, so we can’t ask her. Not many of her monsters have survived either. They are very powerful, but they have a vital design flaw. They’re programmed to instil a slow and painful death on a loved one of anyone who threatens them.”

Geralt drew in a sharp breath. He had been the one who threatened the monster. It was him who unleashed it on Jaskier.

“That defence only works when everybody knows about it and it scares them enough to not even try,” Yennefer continued. “When someone, foolishly,” she gave him a pointed look, “attacks the beast and it does its thing, its attacker will be so enraged by the maiming of a loved one that he thereby gains the power to kill it.”

It was true Geralt had only been able to kill the monster when he thought it had killed Jaskier. “What power is that?”

“You’re the only one I know who’s actually killed one of these. You should know,” Yennefer said. 

She sighed when she saw the confusion on his face. 

“Okay, it makes me throw up a little into my mouth to actually admit to this, but love is one of the most powerful sources of magic there is. I’ve never felt it, not true love anyway, so I don’t know what it’s like, but I’ve seen what it can do.”

Geralt was still looking at her with a blank expression on his face.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Yennefer exclaimed. “You love him, you complete, utter idiot! How much proof do you need?” She punched his chest. “You have a heart in here, and it feels, it feels so much, it’s written all over your face. How are you so bent on ignoring this?”

Geralt opened his mouth, but Yennefer shushed him and pointed a finger at his face. “Don’t you ‘witcher training’ me. How long has that been? Start thinking and feeling for yourself again. If that skill had truly been mutated out of you, the both of you would have been dead by now.”

Yennefer looked away, her eyes roaming over the sleeping town around them.

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “I wish I had what you have.” She sighed. “But honestly, it’s probably an inconvenience most of the time. Take care, Geralt. When he wakes up, tell your bard that I sifted through his mind and think his song ideas are awful.”

Geralt sat on an old chair in the corner of Jana’s house, watching Jaskier sleep.

Sunlight was starting to filter through the two tiny windows, along with the sounds of the town waking up.

Jaskier’s chest rose and fell in an even rhythm. Geralt could hear his heart beating steadily.

Geralt also heard the shuffling of feet and saw a shape moving through the shadows in the house, but as long as it didn’t seem like a threat, he kept his eyes on Jaskier. 

Jana held a steaming bowl of stew in front of his face.

“Thank you,” Geralt said, waving his hand. “I’m not hungry.” The bowl was obstructing his view of Jaskier. He slightly altered his posture so he could see over it.

Jana didn’t take the hint. “Eat,” she said, “you’ll feel better.”

Geralt didn’t need to feel better, he needed Jaskier to be better. He shook his head.

Jana simply pushed the bowl into his hands. Said: “Eat.” And left.

Geralt grudgingly picked up the spoon.

Half the morning had passed and there was no change in Jaskier. He was still breathing evenly and no pain had registered on his face since Yennefer left.

Jana had gone to the market and returned. She chatted away about how it was turning into a warm a warm sunny day outside, and that some people had asked her how Jaskier was doing. She complained that the people in this town were cowards who feared illnesses so much they would have let their beloved bard die if it wasn’t for her. Geralt ignored her until she walked up to Jaskier and reached out to touch his face.

Geralt jumped up. “Don’t touch him! Yennefer said-”

“Calm down.” Jana raised a hand to stop him from pushing her away, as if a frail old lady could stop a witcher. Still, Geralt froze. “Didn’t you notice that witch was teasing you? I don’t know why a good man like yourself would be acquainted with such a horridly jealous woman anyway.”

As she talked, Jana started fussing over Jaskier, stroking his hair and rearranging the blanket.

“She saved our bard, but I bet you that’s just about the only good she’s done in her dozen lifetimes. She saw you hurting and just decided to play a little game with it. You’ve a better heart than she does, the way I look at it.”

Geralt grunted. Seeing how Jaskier was still peacefully asleep, Jana was probably right about Yennefer lying to him. Come to think of it, Yennefer had joked to him about Jaskier’s death before. Geralt hated that, but still, he didn’t agree with the old woman. To compliment him at Yennefer’s expense was unfair. “I’m not a better person than she is.”

“This a precious boy right here.” Jana said, smiling down at Jaskier and completely ignoring Geralt’s comment. 

Geralt wondered if she knew her ‘precious boy’ used to regularly sleep with other people’s wives, often managed to enrage an entire room full of people by singing a single verse, and had wished death by Djinn on a fellow musician at the first opportunity he got. But he decided not to bother informing her. She probably wouldn’t care anyway, the way she bathed Jaskier in motherly love.

Maybe it was as simple as that, all she saw in Jaskier was someone in need of a mother, and that was enough.

“And you love him so much,” Jana said. 

She was looking at him now.

The last rays of sunlight were disappearing behind a neighbouring house when Jaskier finally stirred.

Geralt dropped to his knees next to the bed as Jaskier’s eyes slowly blinked open and found his.

“You’re still here,” Jaskier said, his voice barely more than a whisper. It would take a while before he could sing again.

Jaskier pushed himself up on his elbows and seemed surprised at his own strength. His skin had regained its natural colour and his eyes their striking blue, without any signs of fever.

“Of course I am,” Geralt said. He didn’t cry, because witchers don’t.

Jaskier blinked at him.

“Don’t leave me again,” Geralt said. “I don’t like it.”

“Oh…” Jaskier sat up even straighter. “You so said that! I know you’re going to tell me to shut up and never mention it again, but you meant that, I know you did, you don’t lie. And I will never ever let you forget-mmh”

Geralt had moved forward and kissed him. 

Jaskier froze. 

With anyone else Geralt might have worried that they were scared, and he was forcing them into something they didn’t want, but not with Jaskier. Jaskier had never been afraid of him. If this wasn’t what he wanted, he’d push Geralt away.

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut and Geralt knew this was definitely something he wanted when his hands came up and he wound his fingers in the fabric of Geralt’s shirt, pulling him closer.

Geralt obliged and pushed on, leaning over Jaskier and finally crawling over him onto the bed, pressing him down on his back until his head was resting on the pillow again.

Then he pulled back, stood up and pulled the blanket up to Jaskier’s chin.

Jaskier was looking at him with big bright eyes. He remained stunned for a moment longer, but when he realised Geralt was just going to leave it at this he pushed up on his elbows again and loudly voiced his protest.

“You…you can’t! You can’t just kiss me like that and crawl over me with your incredibly hot witcher body and just leave it at that!”

“Not now, Jaskier,” Geralt said. “You need to save your energy and recover.”

“To hell with that.” Jaskier pulled his arms from under the blanket and reached out for him. “Come back. Get your sexy ass over here.”

Geralt gently but firmly pushed him back down again, holding him down with the blanket this time.

“If you behave now, we can continue later.”

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth but no sound came out.

Maybe, after all this time, Geralt had finally discovered something that would shut Jaskier up.

Geralt’s heart filled with something that very much resembled but probably wasn’t joy. Joy probably wasn’t a feeling witchers experienced.

He’d missed this.

Jaskier was soon strong enough to stand up and move around. The very first place he demanded to go was the inn’s stables to visit Roach. Geralt indulged him, and had to bite back a smile when he witnessed the pure happiness his horse expressed at being reunited with her favourite bard, while Jaskier fussed about nonexistent tangles in her manes and asked her if Geralt had been taking care of her at all.

Jana was happy too, and Jaskier thanked her for everything she’d done for him by playing any song she requested, however many times she wished. His voice wasn’t back to its usual smoothness yet, but it was a beautiful sound nonetheless.

Jaskier had thanked Geralt for returning his lute by pressing a soft kiss against his cheek, which, to Geralt, meant more than either words or music could express.

Despite all the happiness, they still had to talk. Jaskier knew this too. Even Jana did. She didn’t complain when Geralt asked Jaskier to follow him outside one evening, even though she usually fussed about Jaskier catching a cold.

They walked to the edge of the town in silence. It was a clear night. Autumn was well on its way and the stars shone nearly as bright as they did in winter. There was a chill in the air.

When Jaskier shivered, Geralt draped the new cloak he’d bought around his shoulders.

Jaskier stroked the soft fur and looked at him with big eyes that reflected the moonlight.

“Don’t thank me,” Geralt said when Jaskier opened his mouth to probably do just that. “Instead, tell me why you kept it from me. You knew you were ill, you knew it had to do with the monster. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jaskier lowered his eyes. “I promised,” he said.

“What?”

“I promised you that if I got hurt bad enough that I’d start holding you back, I’d leave you be.”

Geralt vaguely remembered this promise, although not the exact words. Clearly it had meant a lot more to Jaskier than it did to him at the time. He’d never needed any promises to let Jaskier tag along. He could have escaped him any time he wanted. All he had to do was leave as Jaskier was sleeping, or spur on Roach until Jaskier wouldn’t be able to keep up. Letting Jaskier follow him had always been by his choice.

“The last thing you want is someone needing you,” Jaskier continued. “I already held you back too much after I got hurt. Don’t think I didn’t notice you took on contracts you didn’t like because of me.”

Geralt wanted to say something, but Jaskier shook his head.

“Just let me…say this. When I felt there was something wrong with me, I decided I had to let you go on and find a healer. I truly planned to catch up with you again later. But then no one could help me, and it got worse, and I thought would be easier for both of us if you didn’t know. I wanted you to remember me as that cheerful bard that followed you around for a while, not as a burden holding you back.”

Geralt cupped Jaskier’s cheek and forced him to look at him. Jaskier’s eyes were filled with tears but fierce and determined.

“I need you,” Geralt said, slowly, carefully. “You’re not a burden. You never were. When I fought the monster, back when…when you got hurt, I was losing. It was too strong for me. But I knew that if I let it hit me, it would come for you, so I dodged sooner and didn’t fight as recklessly as I usually would. Before that fight I didn’t care if a monster got one or two hits in and made me bleed a bit. I went back to fighting that way after I left you here. I almost lost a fight again just a few weeks ago.”

Jaskier frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but Geralt brushed his thumb across his lips to silence him.

“And when I thought it had killed you I just, I gained a power I had never felt before.” Geralt looked down and was quiet for a while, then he looked up, into Jaskier’s eyes again. “You’re worth living for Jaskier. You’re worth fighting for. You make me stronger. I need you.”

Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and buried his face in his neck. 

“You’ve never talked that much before,” he said. “I didn’t know you could.”

Geralt returned the hug and buried his face in Jaskier’s hair, breathing in the scent of him, sweet and healthy. “I don’t mind letting you doing the talking for me.”

Jaskier pulled back with a broad smile on his face. “I can do that,” he said. “I’m pretty good at talking. Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been so much fun to write. My fingers are itching to write more about them, though maybe not to hurt Jaskier quite this much again... Thank you for reading!


End file.
